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ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
A man of twenty-two, his smooth face rh 
sh by reason of his long hair I' ' '"*""" S'"-'- 

'"s than English except Scotch • ' ' '"^''''^ ""^^''"g 



Andrew Lang 






Copyright, 1921. by 

THE BIBLIOPHILE SOCIETY 

ALL KIGHTS RESERVED 



DEC 20 i:j':' 



g)C!,A654072 



*Vv^ I 



INTRODUCTION 

In the light of present knowledge the story 
here printed for the first time is the earliest 
extant piece of prose fiction written by Robert 
Louis Stevenson. Juvenilia such as "The 
Pentland Rising" and a few essays and some 
verses lay behind him, when, in November 
1874, he wrote to Mrs. Sitwell, later Lady 
Colvin: "I have finished The Story of King 
Matthias' Hunting Horn, whereof I spoke to 
you, and I think it should be good. It excites 
me like wine, or fire, or death, or love, or 
something; nothing of my own writing ever 
excited me so much; it does seem to me so 
weird and fantastic." 

The tale named has, according to Sir Sid- 
ney Colvin, "perished like so many other 
stories of this time." Stevenson's rapture over 
it prepares us for the following sentences in a 
letter of January 1875, to the same lady: "I 

[9] 



am so happy. I am no longer here in Edin- 
burgh. I have been all yesterday evening and 
this afternoon in Italy, four hundred years 
ago, with one Sannazaro, sculptor, painter, 
poet, etc., and one Ippolita, a beautiful Duch- 
ess. O I like it badly! I wish you could 
hear it at once; or rather I wish you could see 
it immediately in beautiful type on such a 
page as it ought to be, in my first little volume 
of stories. What a change this is from col- 
lecting dull notes for John Knox, as I have 
been all the early part of the week — the dififer- 
ence between life and death. . . vous ver- 
rez, and if you don't like this story — well, I 
give it up if you don't like it. Not but what 
there's a long way to travel yet; I am no farth- 
er than the threshold ; I have only set the men, 
and the game has still to be played, and a lot 
of dim notions must become definite and 
shapely, and a deal be clear to me that is any- 
thing but clear as yet. The story shall be 
called, I think. When the Devil was Well, in 
allusion to the old proverb." 

Sir Sidney Colvin tells us that the "Italian 
story so delightedly begun was by and by con- 
demned and destroyed like all the others of 

[lO] 



this time." Sir Graham Balfour, Steven- 
son's biographer, who assigns the beginning 
of the tale to the close of 1874, merely says 
that it "was finished the next year, and the 
unfavourable opinion of his friends was ac- 
cepted as final." That it did not perish is now 
amply demonstrated, and perhaps it was pre- 
served because at least one early reader was 
sufficiently enthusiastic — Was it R. A. M. 
Stevenson? — to write on the last page of the 
manuscript, "Bravissimo, caro mio!" Or per- 
haps it survived because Stevenson never for- 
got that he had once lived with his duchess 
and his sculptor- the latter of whom, by the 
way, he always presented as Sanazarro, not as 
Sannazzaro or as Sannazaro, the form of 
spelling in which the name of the real Italian 
poet usually appears. 

A letter to his friend Colvin written from 
Edinburgh in the same month of January 
1875, makes further mention of our story, or 
novelette as its length almost warrants our 
calling it: "I shall have another Portfolio 
paper as soon as I am done with this story, 
that has played me out; the story is to be called 
When the Devil was Well: scene, Italy, Ren- 

[II] 



aissance; colour, purely imaginary of course, 
my own unregenerate imagination of what 
Italy then was. O, when shall I find the 
story of my dreams, that shall never halt nor 
wander nor step aside, but go ever before its 
face, and ever swifter and louder, until the pit 
receives it, roaring?" A little later in the 
same month he mentioned to Colvin another 
story he was finishing, The Two Falconers of 
Cairnstane, his imagination having turned, it 
would seem, to his native land. In the same 
letter he included this tale and King Matthias' 
Hunting Horn in a list of twelve stories, four 
of them Scotch, some of which he had ready, 
some of which needed copying, finishing, or 
"reorganization;" some of which were only 
"in gremio." He discussed getting them into 
shape for A Book of Stories, preferring publi- 
cation as a volume to trying his luck with the 
magazines. But there was apparently no 
word more about When the Devil was Well, 
Had the unfavorable opinion of his friends 
been reached thus early, or was his own love 
for Ippolita waning? 

However this may be, he had tasted the de- 
light of writing fiction, and his appetite for 

[12] 



success was unappeased. Soon he was en- 
gaged on an old story, to which he had given 
the new name of A Country Dance^ — a per- 
formance to be comprised in six or seven chap- 
ters. Preparing articles bothered him; he 
was working '4ike a madman" at his stories. 
Then travel, studying for the law, and many 
other things occupy his mind, and there is lit- 
tle room for stories; but by January 1876, he 
is trying his hand at a novel, and his essays 
take up a good deal of his time. The novel 
was probably The Hair Trunk; or, the Ideal 
Commonwealth^ mentioned in a letter of May 
1877, a work which partly exists in manu- 
script, and is said to contain "some tolerable 
fooling." Then he is going to send Temple 
Bar, his story, The Sire de Maletroifs Mouse- 
trap, a not uninteresting tour de force, which 
we read today in The New Arabian Nights 
as The Sire de Maletroit's Door. Another 
bit of fiction. The Stepfather s Story, probably 
came to nothing, but Will 0' the Mill, men- 
tioned in August 1877, which is now read in 
The Merry Men, was accepted by Leslie 
Stephen for the Comhill, and appeared in the 
number of January 1878. Meanwhile Tern- 

[13] 



pie Bar, in the number of October 1877, had 
printed A Lodging for the Night: A Story of 
Francis Villon. A comparison of the text of 
the story as given in the magazine with that 
to be found in The New Arabian Nights will 
show that Stevenson had "arrived," not mere- 
ly as a writer of prose fiction, but as a master 
of English style. Comparison of the excel- 
lent story of Villon with When the Devil was 
Well will greatly help the future student to 
determine the advance made by Steven- 
son in his art between the winter of 1875 and 
the autumn of 1877. 

Turning now to the manuscript of When 
the Devil was Well, we find that it consists of 
fifty-four carefully numbered quarto leaves, 
the first of which is herewith given in facsim- 
ile, — the back of each leaf, with one excep- 
tion, being blank. The text throughout is in 
ink in a hand of medium, or a shade above 
medium, size. Many erasures, insertions, and 
other changes throw considerable and inter- 
esting light upon the attitude of the young 
writer toward his style. These alterations are 
for the main part indicated in the appendix, 
and a study of them will convince most per- 



sons that the changes made are, as a rule, dis- 
tinctly for the better. So far as can be deter- 
mined, all the alterations due to Stevenson 
himself are in ink, the numerous changes and 
suggestions due to others being in pencil. 
Through how many other revising hands the 
manuscript passed is difficult to determine — 
perhaps even the greatest expert in matters of 
handwriting would hesitate to express a very 
positive opinion. It is clear, however, that at 
least three readers left their pencilled traces. 
One annotator — by far the most copious and 
interesting — we have assumed to be Steven- 
son's father, the engineer Thomas Stevenson, 
who at the time of this story was about fifty- 
seven years old. T'his assumption is based on 
statements made in the catalogue of the An- 
derson Galleries, New York, for the sale of 
November 29-30, 1920. Another reader, who 
left but few traces, is identified by the hand 
assumed to be Thomas Stevenson's as "Steph- 
en." It seems hard to find among Stevenson's 
relatives and friends one whose Christian 
name would point to him as the annotator, 
and a natural and pleasing inference is that 
the person we are in search of is no other than 

[15] 



the distinguished critic, Leslie Stephen, then 
editing the Cornhill,-l2LteT editor of The Dic- 
tionary of National Biography^ and Sir Les- 
lie. In February 1875 — the month after 
When the Devil was Well seems to have been 
written — Stephen, who was lecturing in Edin- 
burgh, called on Stevenson, and took him to 
see Henley, who was then confined to an in- 
firmary. Colvin had already introduced 
Stevenson to Stephen, and the latter had print- 
ed the former's paper, Victor Hugo's Ro- 
mances, in the Cornhill, hence it seems not too 
hazardous to conjecture that in some way or 
other Stephen was induced to glance over the 
manuscript of the story, whether or not it was 
in anyone's mind that he might use it in his 
magazine.^ 

The third reader, who has left clear traces 
in the manuscript, was the enthusiastic one 
whose comment in Italian has already been 
given. It has been plausibly conjectured that 
he was Stevenson's cousin, Robert Alan Mow- 

^ Since this was written, a comparison of the annotation 
attributed to "Stephen" with a holograph letter of Leslie 
Stephen's leaves practically no doubt that the reviser of Stev- 
enson's manuscript at this point was, as is held in the text, the 
editor of the Cornhill. 

[16] 



bray Stevenson, three and a half years his 
senior, who became a distinguished critic of 
painting. The exuberance of the unknown's 
comment seems somewhat to savor of the con- 
versational brilliance said to have character- 
ized this talented cousin, but positive identifi- 
cation of him with the annotator is impossi- 
ble, in the absence of specimens of his hand- 
writing. Equally impossible is it to make 
sure whether all the persons who passed judg- 
ment upon the manuscript have been clearly 
differentiated. More than once what has 
been assumed to be the handwriting of Thom- 
as Stevenson furnishes occasion for the sus- 
picion that perhaps some mistake has been 
made, and that a fourth reader is lurking in 
the misty background. 

Were now these three, four, or more adr 
visers right in their verdict reported as hav- 
ing been on the whole unfavorable? From 
some points of view they doubtless were. 
Stevenson had made a good beginning as a re- 
viewer and essayist, and, as that accomplished 
bibliographer, the late Col.W. F. Prideaux re- 
minded us, he had apparently begun to recog- 
nize in his paper on Hugo's romances the abil- 

[17] 



ity to say things in the way they should be 
said. Something of this ability is discover- 
able in When the Devil was fVell^ but it was 
an open question in 1875 whether the young 
writer's reputation might not be damaged by 
the appearance of a story no more striking in 
plot and characterization than this early per- 
formance. On the other hand, we may agree 
with Stevenson's advisers, and yet be very glad 
that we are enabled to read the story they 
counselled him to suppress. We can per- 
ceive that, although amateurish, it is quite 
readable as a whole, and contains not a few 
premonitory touches of something we now 
know to have been genius. We can cast 
around it a mild halo of sentiment and affec- 
tion without feeling that we have done a griev- 
ous wrong to our critical faculties. We can 
readily perceive its value to the close student 
of Stevenson's evolution as an artist. Finally, 
we can rest assured that what Stevenson did 
not destroy probably made an appeal to him 
which is not likely to be lost upon his admirers 
old or new. 

W. P. Trent 

[18] 



WHEN THE DEVIL WAS WELL 

When Duke Orsino had finally worn out 
the endurance of his young wife Ippolita, he 
made no opposition to her departure from the 
palace, and even had her escorted with all 
honour to the nunnery among the hills, which 
she had chosen for her retreat. Here, the 
good soul began to heal herself of all the 
slights that had been put upon her in these 
last years ; and day by day, she grew to a great- 
er quietness of spirit, and a more deep content- 
ment in the little sunshiny, placid, ways of 
convent life; until it seemed to her as if all the 
din and passion, all the smoke and stir of that 
dim spot that men call earth, had passed too 
far away from her to move her any more. It 
seemed as if life were quite ended for her, and 

[Stevenson's own punctuation, which includes a liberal num- 
ber of commas, has for the most part been followed in print- 
ing this story.] 

[19] 



yet, in a new sense, beginning. As day fol- 
lowed day, without violence, without distrust, 
without the poor falsehood or the poor pomp 
of a court life she seemed to breathe in renova- 
tion, and grow ever stronger and ever the more 
peaceful at heart. And yet the third year had 
not come to an end, before this peace was over- 
thrown. For about that time it chanced that 
there was a new great altar-piece needed for 
the convent chapel ; and so the authorities sent 
for a young sculptor, who (as was possible in 
these grand days) was a bit of a painter also, 
and a bit of an architect too, for the matter of 
that, and, for that matter, he could turn a son- 
net as well as another, and touch a lute. One 
morning, after Sanazarro (for that was the 
sculptor's name), had been the matter of a 
week about his picture, he chanced to look out 
of his window in the early morning, while 
Ippolita went to and fro in the garden read- 
ing. He looked at her carelessly enough at 
first; but he was so taken, before she left the 
garden, with the dignity and delicacy of her 
shape, and a certain large and tranquil sorrow 
in her face, that he made an oath to himself 
inwardly, not to leave the convent until he had 

[20] 



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seen more of this sweet nun. And so that day 
nothing would go right with his altar-piece, 
it seemed. He painted in and painted out, 
till it was hard to divine what he was after; 
and by evening, the canvass looked altogether 
different, and there was a great bald space 
now, where before there had been much finish- 
ed work. You see, he had to change his whole 
composition, before he could make room for 
another full length female figure. 

The next morning, before the sun rose, he 
was at his window; and again the beautiful 
nun walked for an hour or two about the con- 
vent garden, not reading this time, but stoop- 
ing here and there among the borders to pluck 
flowers, following butterflies to and fro with 
a sort of grave curiosity, standing to listen for 
long times together to a bird on one of the cy- 
presses, and looking out, with gladness in her 
eyes, on the long peep of woodland and fall- 
ing vale that opened through the mountains 
toward the south. This decided him for good 
and all; he would have the painting of that 
nun, he told himself, if it cost him his finger 
nails. So he desired an audience of the Lady 
Abbess, and told her roundly enough, that he 

[21] 



could do no more without a proper model for 
the angel in the right-hand corner. The poor 
Superior was in consternation, and wondered 
if he could by no means find what he needed 
in the neighbourhood. 

"We have the very thing here under our 
own eyes," said Sanazarro, with a little sigh. 
"But I suppose it may not be — she is a nun." 
The Abbess was properly scandalised, and in- 
formed him that, in accordance with their 
strict rule, he had never — no, not so much as 
for one moment — seen the face of any of the 
religious of that house. 

"Nun or no nun," he returned, "my model 
walks up and down the garden every morning 
in a nun's habit." 

"Ah Signor, that is no nun," said the Ab- 
bess; "that is the Duchess of Orsino, a very 
great lady, and so piously given that she lives 
here with us, by permission of her husband, 
the Duke. But our end is none the better 
served. We cannot ask a great princess that 
she should hold up her face to you while you 
paint." 

"And yet the end is God's Glory," said San- 

[22] 



azarro, as though he were thinking to him- 
self. . .^ 

^'It is not as if it were a mythological sub- 
ject, or a mere portrait" 

"By no means," said the Abbess. 

"And so, if she be piously given — you said 
she was given piously?" 

"A perfect angel!" said the Abbess, casting 
up her eyes. 

"In short," concluded Sanazarro, in a tone 
that did not admit of question, "if she will not 
so far discompose herself for God's service and 
the zeal of this house, there is no other help 
for it, nothing else is here that would serve 
my end, and I must go for some weeks' study 
to the town." And he made as if he was go- 
ing out. 

Now the Abbess, as he knew very well, de- 
sired to have the new altar-piece against a cer- 
tain festival, and would go a long way to 
bring about her fancy. "I will speak at once 
with the Duchess," she said. And as this was 
all the young sculptor could expect, he bowed 

1 These dots appear in the manuscript, and do not indicate 
any omission. This applies also throughout the story, wherever 
they are shown. 

[23] 



and went back to his work in so fine a flutter 
of expectation that he could scarce hold his 
pencils. He had not been many minutes over 
his canvass, ere he was bidden by the old gar- 
dener to speak with her Grace. She was 
lodged in a small pavilion, decorated with her 
own hand and stored with books and materials 
for embroidery, and instruments of music. 
You may be quite sure her heart beat as hard 
as Sanazarro's at the thought of this interview, 
for it was some years since she had spoken with 
any besides the good quiet women of the con- 
vent, women whose time was measured out to 
them by the bell for offices, the Mulberry har- 
vest and the Archbishop's annual visit. He 
made her a very handsome salutation, which 
she returned to him with dignity; and after a 
few moments of talk, she addressed the Ab- 
bess, who stood by, and told her she would 
love so much to see the progress of the picture 
that she was willing to let herself be painted, 
as a sort of price. "You must see that you 
make me fair enough, Signor," she added with 
a little laugh. 

The Abbess was usually present at their sit- 
tings and, while she was there, there was much 

[24] 



talk between the sculptor and the Duchess. 
When they were left alone, they spoke less and 
with less freedom; Sanazarro grew shamefast, 
and bent over his painting, and often, when he 
raised his eyes with intent to speak, there was 
something in her face that discouraged him 
and made the words die on his lips: they were 
never the right words somehow. It was a 
pleasant time for both. There was the great 
shadowed room, with a flicker of vine leaves 
at the stanchioned window; the canvass dyed 
in gold and amethyst and peopled with many 
speaking countenances of saints and angels; 
and these two beautiful young folk, thinking 
silently of each other with downcast eyes, or 
courting, unconsciously to themselves, in the 
grave presence of the nun. And when from 
time to time, a pufif of wind would bring in to 
them the odour of the limes, or a bell would 
ring for some office, and they could hear the 
organ and chanting from the chapel, these 
things would fall so exactly into the vein of 
their sweet talk that they seemed to be a part 
of it; and the two were grateful, each to the 
other, for the pleasure of them. Ippolita 
grew to be all in all to Sanazarro; and he, in 

[25] 



his turn, was all in all to her. When there 
came a messenger from the city, telling her 
that there were some signs of a good change in 
her husband's disposition, she was glad indeed, 
in a saintly, sisterly sort of way, for the sake 
of the man who had so much injured her; but 
all the gladness and the gratitude went down 
somehow to the account of Sanazarro, and she 
loved him the better for the good news. 

One morning, as Ippolita was walking as 
usual in the sloping garden, she raised her eyes 
by chance and met those of Sanazarro intently 
following her as she went. Both started. The 
sculptor withdrew his head; and when again 
he ventured to peep forth, the Duchess had re- 
covered her composure and was walking to 
and fro among the borders as before, with 
just a little touch of added dignity in her car- 
riage. She left the garden half an hour soon- 
er than was her custom. That day the sitting 
was rather nervous work; and when the Ab- 
bess left them alone together for a while, al- 
though the embarrassment of the silence grew 
almost unendurable, they did not exchange one 
word till she returned. The next morning, 
Sanazarro waited and waited at the window; 

[26] 



the bees and butterflies came and went among 
the blossoms, the sunlit garden was flickered 
over with the swift shadows of flying swallows, 
the doves crooned on the gutter overhead, the 
gardener came and dug awhile under the win- 
dow and sang to his work in a cracked voice; 
— but there was no Ippolita. You may fancy 
if the painting went heavily all that day; the 
two young folk were so tongue-tied, that the 
Abbess had the talk all her own way, and 
taught them recipes for possets and cordials 
and dressings to lay upon fresh wounds, and 
told them tales of her sainted predecessor, 
Monna Francesca, until it was time to sepa- 
rate. But on the third morning, Ippolita ap- 
peared again, with heightened colour and a 
sweet consciousness of gait. For some time, 
she avoided that part of the garden which was 
looked upon by Sanazarro's lodging, but at 
last (as though she thought there was a sort of 
confession in too much diffidence) she began 
to draw near to it with eyes fixed upon the 
walk. Nay, she stood a long while immedi- 
ately underneath, pulling a rose in pieces in 
an absent doubtful manner; once even, she 
raised her head a little, as though she would 

[27] 



fain be certain whether or not she was ob- 
served, and then thinking better of it, changed 
colour and walked off again with all imagin- 
able dignity of gait. Never were two people 
met in such adorable spirits, as these two that 
afternoon; and the Abbess had sometimes to 
dry her eyes and sometimes to hold her sides 
for laughing, — they talked with such gaiety 
and passion on all manner of things, sad and 
merry and beautiful. The next day, as Ippo- 
lita drew near, there fluttered down in the sun- 
shine, out of Sanazarro's window, a little open 
leaf of white paper with some writing on it. 
Looking up covertly, while yet she was some 
distance off, she saw the sculptor's face was 
there no longer; and so, telling herself all 
manner of good, wise reasons for the folly, she 
came forward hurriedly and snatched up the 
treasure and put it in the bosom of her dress. 
It was a sonnet written as Sanazarro knew 
how, clear and strong in form, and of a dainty 
turn, in which he addressed some unknown 
goddess who had made the world a new world 
for him, and given him a new acquaintance 
with his soul. 

All this time, you will ask me, where were 

[28] 



the Abbess's eyes? She was a simple creature, 
indeed, but I do think the good soul had 
her own suspicions, and I believe the whole 
business cost her many a God-forgive-me, and 
that she atoned by secret penances for the lit- 
tle indulgences, the little opportunities of pri- 
vate talk that she was wont to make for the 
two lovers. You may join the strictest order 
on the face of the earth ; but if you are a good- 
hearted sentimental old maid, you will be a 
good-hearted sentimental old maid to the end. 
And all this time, there passed no word of love 
between the pair. Something about Ippolita 
imposed upon Sanazarro and withheld him, 
and had so much changed him, indeed, that 
he scarcely recognised himself. Only a strange 
familiarity and confidence grew up, and, when 
they were alone, they told each other all the 
secret troubles of their past lives, and Ippolita 
would lean upon his chair to see him paint. 
At last one day, as summer drew near to its 
meridian, and the picture, in spite of all dally- 
ing, grew and grew hourly toward accomplish- 
ment, Ippolita came and leant after this fash- 
ion on Sanazarro's chair. He could feel her 
touch upon his shoulder, and her breath stirred 

[29] 



his hair as it came and went. A film stood 
before his eyes, he could paint no longer; and 
thus they remained for some troubled seconds 
in silence. Then Sanazarro laid down his 
palette and brushes, stood up and turned round 
to her and took both her hands in his. The 
sight of her face, white and frightened and 
expectant, with mild eyes, and a tremulous un- 
der lip — the sight of her face was to him as 
if he had seen the thoughts of his own heart in 
a mirror. Their mouths joined, with a shud- 
der, in one long kiss. This was the time when 
Sanazarro should have died. A man should 
die, when he has saved a life, or finished a 
great work, or set the first kiss upon his lady's 
lips ; at one of those short seasons when he feels 
as if he had attained to the summit of attain- 
ment, and had no more to live for. It was 
Ippolita who came soonest to herself; she 
plucked her lips away from his, and laid her 
hand confidently on his shoulder: "Now 
dear," she said, "you must go away — You 
must not see me more — Work, and think 
sometimes of me; and I shall pray and think 
of you." 

After that, the Duchess gave Sanazarro no 

[30] 



more sittings. He finished his picture in a 
week, working at it without rest or intermis- 
sion, and then took leave of the good Abbess, 
and went forth again into the world with great 
happiness and sorrow in his heart. As he went 
down that beautiful reach of valley that was 
visible from the convent garden, he stopped 
often to look back. He could see its congre- 
gated roofs and the chapel belfry shine in the 
sunlight among the black pines, under the 
glaring dusty shoulder of the hill. He looked 
back into that narrow crevice, and then forth 
and on where the widening valley showed him 
many fruitful counties and famous cities and 
the far-ofif brightness of the Adriatic beyond 
all; and he thought how he left his soul be- 
hind him in that cleft of the big hills, and how 
all these kingdoms of the earth that lay out- 
spread below, could ofifer him nothing that he 
loved or coveted. It was no wonder if his 
horse went slowly.^ 

1 Sanazarro's 29th Sonnet: many interesting details, besides 
those borrowed in the text, are to be found in these delightful 
poems, which I am always glad to think, it was his last work 
on earth to revise and perfect. [Author's note.] 



[31] 



Duke Orsino had been long ailing; it was 
months since he had been withdrawn from war 
and gallantry; these months had each brought 
with them some new token of failing strength, 
and he had been confined first to the garden, 
and next to the studio and the great gallery, 
and then to his own room. For three weeks 
no[w] he had been bed-ridden. And just as 
the splendour and vigour of the life of the 
Palazzo had declined at first, step by step with 
his declining health, there began now a sort 
of contrary movement; and as he grew ever 
worse, the steps of the religious were more 
common on the marble staircase, a haunting 
odour of incense hung about the house, and the 
work of the new chapel was pushed on with the 
more energy day by day. A young statuary 
had come recently from Florence for the 
greater decoration of the tomb in the south 
aisle; and the sound of himself and his work- 
men singing gaily over the clay or the marble, 
stole out through the house and fell often upon 
my lord's ear, as he lay, propped upon pillows, 
thumbing and muttering over his book of 
hours. Among other signs that the Duke's 
sands were running low, the Duchess had been 

[32] 



recalled from the nunnery where she had lived 
so many years sequestrated, and the brilliant 
Isotta had gone forth reluctantly from the Pa- 
lazzo, followed by a train of dissolute attend- 
ants and many brawny porters bearing chests. 
Orsino was going to make a very reputable 
end, it appeared, to a not very reputable life. 
Large sums were given daily to the poor. He 
was to be reconciled before he died (so went 
the rumor) to his old enemy Bartolomeo della 
Scala, whom he had driven out of the town in 
old years, and who had since crossed him in 
love and war, and outrivalled him in splen- 
dour of living and ostentatious patronage of 
art. 

Towards the end of January, as Sanazarro 
(for he was the sculptor) was passing through 
the vestibule after his day's work, he was aware 
of an unusual bustle in the palace, and saw 
many shaven heads coming and going between 
the door and the quarter of the house where 
the Duke's sick-room was situated. Priests 
and monks kept passing out and in, by pairs or 
little companies, talking away to each other 
with much eagerness and a great show of se- 
crecy. Sanazarro was not used to see so many 

[33] 



visitors in this sad house, and stood aside be- 
tween two pillars to see if there was any end 
to the thoroughfare. "Death must be draw- 
ing near," he thought to himself, "when so 
many crows are gathered together." And yet 
they all looked merry enough and hopeful; 
and what he could catch of their talk, was not 
what would be looked for in the mouths of 
persons leaving a perilous sick bed. Two 
words recurred so often that he ended by put- 
ting them together. If he did not hear "mira- 
cle," he heard "tomorrow;" if no one said 
"tomorrow," some one would say "miracle." 
It looked as if they expected some wonderful 
event on the next day; perhaps the restoration 
of Orsino's health. And yet he had touched 
a sight of relics, since first he fell sick, without 
much benefit; and seen so many doctors, that 
you would have thought there [were] no more 
left in Italy for him to consult. 

At last, there was an end of priests and 
monks; the palace seemed to have disgorged 
itself of ecclesiastics; and as no more came 
from without to take their places, Sanazarro 
quitted his post of watch and went down the 
street with that something of a swagger that 

[34] 



befitted his beautiful person, his fine clothes 
and his growing repute as an artist. "A mira- 
cle tomorrow!" he thought to himself, with a 
little smile. "And a very good time for it — 
unless it were better the day after!" 

It was sunset when he got out of the city 
gate. The day was drawing to a close in a 
sort of sober splendour, without much colour, 
but with a wonderful parade of light. The 
western sky was all one space of clear gold; 
the eastern sky was tinged with a faint green 
behind certain purple hills; overhead, a star 
or two had come forth and were already large 
and bright. The undulating olive grounds 
lay about him in blue shadow, and grew dark- 
er moment by moment. He sat down by a 
wayside crucifix, and fell to thinking of many 
things, and, I daresay, among others, of the 
nunnery in the hills, and the sloping garden 
where Ippolita used to walk. He had seen 
her, that day, and saluted her in silence as 
usual; for many days, these two had lived un- 
der the same roof, without the exchange of a 
word or so much as a look of intelligence. 
As he thus sat brooding, there was a faint 
sound far away upon the road, that grew rap- 

[35] 



idly louder, until Bartolomeo della Scala 
came up between the olive woods, with many 
horsemen about him. He stopped as he came 
alongside of Sanazarro; for the fantastic dress 
of the sculptor made him easily known even 
at dusk; and taking off his hat with ironical 
courtesy, demanded how it went with his pres- 
ent patron. 

"Why, my lord," answered Sanazarro, "it 
goes with him even as I would have it go with 
you, and all other my good friends and pa- 
trons. He is like to outstrip us. He will 
have the choice of rooms before us, my lord, 
in Paradise." 

"Aye, aye," said Bartolomeo, "I am over- 
joyed to hear it. Master Sanazarro. See that 
he does not outstrip you in yet another way. 
See that you have the tomb ready for the good 
man. I would not have him begin the new 
life in an ill-aired bed. I pray God" — and 
here he crossed himself with much appear- 
ance of devotion — "I pray God, although the 
time be short, I may yet have a chance of send- 
ing some one of his house before him to warm 
the sheets somewhat." 

"You had best not be over-confident," re- 

[36] 



turned Sanazarro; for he was growing irritat- 
ed. Little as he loved Orsino, he was a better 
patron than La Scala; and this he knew well, 
for he had done work for both in his time. 
"You had best not be over-confident. There 
is a talk of miracles in the Palace." 

"Truly," returned Bartolomeo, "I am not 
afraid of Miracles. If God is willing to in- 
terfere, so am I. Miracles, Master Sanazar- 
ro, are packed now-a-days in the holds of ships 
for Venice, and come post over the hills at a 
horseman's girdle. Storms may wreck the 
ship, and then God help the poor miracle at 
the bottom of the sea. Aye — and strong men 
can stop the post." 

And so saying, and with another ironical 
obeisance, Bartolomeo wheeled his party 
round and went ofif by the way he had come. 
He left Sanazarro's head pretty busy; it was 
plain that La Scala understood the meaning of 
his own random answer better than he did 
himself; and as he thought the thing over, it 
became plain also that the occasion of this 
expected miracle, whether new medicine or 
old and holy relic, was on the way that night 
from Venice, and it was to intercept it that La 

[37] 



Scala scoured the roads at evening with his 
horsemen. Sanazarro did not love the Duke, 
as I have said; but neither did he altogether 
hate him. He was a troubled recollection to 
him, as of a man sick and captious, but not 
without moments of graceful complaisance, 
and instinct with an exquisite sensibility to art, 
such as the true artist might imagine in a pa- 
tron whilst he dreamed. So far, the scale lay 
in favour of Orsino. But there was another 
consideration as the reader knows, there was 
more perilous stuff in the cauldron. . . 

Sanazarro went back to the Palace in a 
humour of lowering doubt; and meeting Ip- 
polita's maid on the stair, he wrote a few lines 
on a tablet and gave it her to take to her mis- 
tress. She came to him where he waited, in 
an anteroom, and gave him her hand simply. 
His heart was in his mouth, and he dared 
scarcely trust himself to take the hand she of- 
fered. Her eyes told him plainly that she still 
loved. They stood thus for some seconds, 
looking on each other sadly. Then Ippolita 
withdrew her hand. 

"Dear friend," she said, "we must be brave 
and faithful. What would you with me?" 

[38] 



He told her all that he had seen and heard, 
and what had been his own conclusion. 

"You have guessed aright," she said. "There 
must be treachery in the house, since La Scala 
knows so much." 

"Where there are so many priests, there 
must be some treason," replied Sanazarro. 
"Let that rest. Time presses. What is to be 
done?" 

"There are few men in the house," she 
answered. "Cosmo is gone westward with a 
great party to divert attention; that was 
thought more politic than an escort. The Ma- 
jor Domo must go to meet the messenger with 
as strong a following as he can raise; and as 
he is a weak man and not wise, you will go 
with him." 

"Death of my body, Signora, you must 
think me very good!" he cried. 

"I know you are very good," she answered 
simply. 

Sanazarro put his hat on, which was of 
course against all etiquette, and held his hand 
out to her with a smile. "You are right, good 
angel," he said. "I shall go; I do not wish 

[39] 



his death, God knows; and he shall have the 
medicine if I can get it for him." 

"It is not medicine," she replied; "it is 
water from the holy Jordan." Sanazarro 
laughed outright: he felt more pleasure in the 
mission after that. 

Ippolita put her hand on his shoulder with 
a caress that went all through him. "Dear 
friend, pardon me," she said. "You must un- 
cover before I call the Major Domo." 

The blood flew into Sanazarro's face, as he 
obeyed. 

"Nay, dear," she said appealingly, "it is 
not of my will, it is what must be between us. 
God knows to which of us it is most hard." 

"I do not complain," he said (but his voice 
was not his own voice). "I am a poor artist 
only, although I come of no mean blood. Your 
Grace — " 

"You are not generous, Sanazarro." And 
she put her hand to her heart. 

Sanazarro's conscience smote him, but be- 
fore he could command himself enough to 
speak, she had summoned the Major Domo 
and their privacy was at an end. 

There was such a devil of remorse and irri- 

[40] 



tation in Sanazarro's heart that night, that he 
could have fought with his born brother. The 
small body of troopers, led by the Major 
Domo and himself, met the messenger coming 
leisurely down the road about the stroke of 
midnight, some fifteen miles from town. They 
made him quicken his pace; poor fellow, he 
could scarce command his horse for terror, for 
he was noways martial and did not relish the 
idea of bare swords. About a mile on that 
side of the town, La Scala fell suddenly upon 
them in the darkness. The two troops went 
together at full gallop with a shout. But the 
Orsini were of the lighter metal, and went 
down before the others. The old Major Do- 
mo was cut to the saddle by Bartolomeo. San- 
azarro felt his horse fall, and then a storm of 
hoofs go over him, — and then no more. The 
rest of the party was broken up and scattered 
like chaff; they were pursued far down the 
road, till they were glad to throw themselves 
from their horses and take to the brush like 
hares. Young La Scala, Gian Pietro the beau- 
tiful, as people called him for his fair body, 
dismounted and went about the road on foot, 
dispatching such of the wounded as still 

[41] 



showed signs of life. One man, whom he de- 
tected crawling away toward the roadside, 
wailed most piteously for quarter. "I have 
what you want," he cried (for it was the mes- 
senger himself) ; "I can give you the bottle, 
good gentleman. Spare my life, and you shall 
have the bottle." Gian Pietro was delighted; 
he got the bottle first and then passed his 
sword through the poor messenger's body. 
The party was called back from the pursuit 
by the sound of a trumpet, and they returned 
in great exaltation of spirit towards the town. 
Meanwhile Orsino was preparing himself 
against the miracle of the morning. He had 
fasted faithfully all that day, and he now sat 
up talking earnestly with his spiritual director. 
By the order of his physician, he had just 
swallowed a little wine. His eyes shone with 
a singular lustre; the skin of his face was 
stretched tightly over his prominent cheek- 
bones and high forehead; there was a drawing 
round about his lips, moreover, that had the 
efifect from a little distance of a permanent 
smile, and gave him a crafty treacherous look 
that was well enough in harmony with his 
fast career. For the Duke had been a man 

[42] 



of signal wickedness; there was much blood 
upon his hands; he had been faithless, cruel, 
dissolute, and rapacious. It was no wonder 
that he professed himself doubtful of a miracle 
in his behalf, laying one thin hand, as he spoke, 
on his director's arm. 

"When I look back on my past life," he 
said, "it seems to me impious, father, and in a 
manner a sacrilege, to give the water of this 
blessed river to so vile a sinner. But God 
reads the heart, father — God knows the in- 
most thought. And if I desire to be restored, 
it is that I may undo some of the ill I have 

wrought. There is my wife 

"I shall make her amends in the future for all 
she has suffered from me in the past; she shall 
have one of my castles and a fourth portion 
of my revenue. She shall keep a court, if she 
will." 

"This is nothing to the purpose, son. You 
must be a good husband to her." 

"I will be a good husband to her," returned 
the Duke submissively. "And then," he con- 
tinued, "there is Bartolomeo. I have injured 
him grievously, and in so doing, I have hurt 
my own family and wronged the interests of 

[43] 



the town. There must be peace between us." 

"There must be peace, my son," echoed the 
director solemnly. 

"There shall be, father," said the Duke de- 
cisively. "And then there are the lands I took 
from the Cafarelli." 

" — And the pictures you took from the con- 
vent of Santa Felice." 

" — And my brother's son whom I have hith- 
erto defrauded." 

" — And the heretics whom hitherto you 
have not persecuted with godly zeal." 

" — And the heretics, father; they shall not 
be tolerated one day longer," 

"I suspect Sanazarro," said the director. 

"He is an artist," replied the Duke. 

"Nevertheless," continued the priest, "my 
conscience will not be easy until, with your 
grace's permission, I have examined him a lit- 
tle on the rack." 

"Passion of God!" cried the Duke, "he shall 
finish my tomb first!" 

The director held up his hand, and regard- 
ed his penitent with a terrible severity of 
countenance. "My son," he said, "my son, 
you are beside yourself." The Duke clasped 

[44] 



his hands and asked forgiveness audibly 
through the intercession of a score of saints 
and the blessed Virgin. *'You shall have the 
racking of him when you will," he said; "and 
you may burn him afterwards, if so the 
Church desires. Fear not, father, I shall do 
my duty, all carnal affections set aside." 

Just about this time (for it was now late, 
or rather early) a fugitive found his way back 
from the rout of the Major Domo's expedi- 
tion, and was brought up with a white face to 
where the Duchess sat waiting impatiently 
for news. When she heard what the man had 
to say, she became as white as he. 

"And Sanazarro?" she asked. 

"Dead, Signora," said the man. "I was 
the only one who escaped. They are devils 
incarnate — they would let none of us away." 

"This will be a great pain to the Duke," 
she said. "His tomb cannot be finished by 
the same hand." And she laughed a little 
with rather a terrifying laugh. Then she 
gave orders that every man in the Palazzo 
capable of bearing arms, should go forth and 
bring in the wounded; and no sooner was she 

[45] 



alone, than she fell against the wall and 
fainted. 

Some rumour of this conversation came in- 
to the Duke's room and disturbed his repent- 
ant ecstasies. The director opened the door 
by his command, and called out to know if 
anything were amiss; but as there was no one 
in the antechamber but the Duchess, and she 
was already insensible, he concluded their 
alarm had been vain; and priest and penitent 
fell once more to their exercises. 

"Beyond question," said Orsino, "nothing 
can fall out but with God's will." 

"He holds the earth, my son, in the hollow 
of his hand — blessed be the name of the 
Lord." And the priest crossed himself de- 
voutly. 

"He will not refuse a repentant sinner?" 
asked Orsino. 

"Not if he repent truly," answered the 
priest. 

"And what are the signs of a true peni- 
tence? If it be enough to abhor vehemently 
all our former sins, and thirst after a renewal 
of life, not for further occasion of pleasure, 
but that we may undo the evil we have al- 

[46] 



ready brought about, then am I truly peni- 



tent." 



"You must do more than that, my son. You 
must redeem the past by suitable penance." 

"Father, I will become a monk and beg 
my bread from door to door, with a cord about 
my waist." 

"You forget, my son; you are married," 
objected the priest. 

"I will become a monk so soon as my wife 
dies, then," returned the Duke. 

The confessor blew his nose; it was some- 
what difficult to know what to say to this 
amended proposition; so he blew his nose as 
I say, and took up another subject. 

"You must become veritably reconciled to 
the Lord La Scala." 

"Indeed, there is nothing I desire more fer- 
vently," replied the Duke. "I would fain 
leave this town in possession of quiet and plen- 
ty. I, who have so often carried war through 
its streets, I would fain show to all men the 
example of placability and Christian come- 
liness of behaviour. I will lead in La Scala 
by the hand, and ask pardon for all my injur- 
ies on my knees in the public market place. 

[47] 



I would be wept by the people when I come 
to die, and be called 'the good Duke' for years 
and years thereafter. O father, it changes all 
a man's fancies, let him but once see death in 
the face; there is a look in that white counte- 
nance that sobers him of all his vanities and 
notions. I would sooner have a good con- 
science, as God sees me, than the most beau- 
tiful of statues, or the rarest manuscript, or 
ten strong towns. Father, my penitence is 
real, is it not? Let us pray that it is." 

While they were both praying, there came a 
knock at the door, and a valet came in with a 
bottle and a folded letter. 

"You will read it for me, father," said Or- 
sino. 

The priest glanced his eye over the paper, 
and then crossed himself. "My son," he said, 
"the way is paven for your reconciliation. 
God is willing to spare you, being truly peni- 
tent, all needless humbling; and has moved 
my Lord Bartolomeo to take the first step. 
For listen how he writes: ^My Lord, certain 
of my men have overthrown certain of yours 
this evening, in fair fight. From one of those 
who fell, they took a bottle, which, upon my 

[48] 



learning that it contained water from the Jor- 
dan for the healing of your disease, I herewith 
return to its rightful owner. I do not make 
war upon sick men.^ Let us give thanks to 
God," added the priest. 

But Orsino was in no humour to thank God. 
"Who brought this pasquil, Lippo?" he de- 
manded angrily of the valet. 

"My lord, it was my lord Gian Pietro with 
his own hand," replied the servant. 

"Perdition on his head! Over the window 
with it. Passion of God, do you hear me, 
priest? Over the window with the thingi" 

"My lord, this water from the holy riv- 



er—" 



"Water from the accursed bottom of Hell!" 
"My lord Duke!" expostulated the priest. 
"My lord Devily!" retorted Orsino. "Give 

the flask to me." 

"Nay, my lord, not so: it is an holy relic." 
"An holy relic of Saint-Gian-Pietro! I 

will lay my living soul, it is five parts poison." 
"My lord, you wrong yourself in judging 

so hardly of others. I will drink one half of 

it gladly, to set your evil phantasy at rest. Is 

[49] 



this all your penitence? It seems somewhat 
short of breath." 

Orsino was smitten with remorse at these 
words, and fell industriously to praying and 
beating his bosom; and as in the course of 
these improving exercises, he came somewhat 
to himself, he was astonished to find that, in 
the heat of his passion, he had turned round 
in bed and was now sitting with his feet hang- 
ing over the edge and his back unsupported. 
For near a month, he had been too much par- 
alysed to make so great a movement. 

*'Good father," he cried — he had fallen 
back again into his whining vein — "Good 
father, how can this be? I have moved my- 
self in bed — I am half out of it. Christ be 
merciful to me a sinner! — What should this 
portend? For the love of God, father, lift 
me back into my place." 

"It is a sign to you, my son," said the confes- 
sor, "what you may hope through the blessed 
instrumentality of this water. If even its 
presence in the room with you, has had this 
potently restorative influence, what may you 
not hope when you partake of it, fasting from 
bread and with a clean conscience!" 

[50] 



"I should desire, nevertheless," said the 
Duke, leaning back again in his former atti- 
tude, and closing his eyes with a look of lux- 
urious wiliness, not unlike a cat's, "I should 
desire, nevertheless, that you should do as you 
suggested, and drink the half of it this even- 
ing. My life is precious; I have a duty to 
the world, were it only to right the wrongs 
that I have done. I could then drink the oth- 
er half, with a clear conscience as you say, 
tomorrow." 

The ecclesiastic uncorked the bottle and 
poured the half of it into a glass. 

"Nay, nay," said Orsino, "put that back 
again a moment and shake it up. The poison 
might be precipitated to the bottom," he add- 
ed knowingly. 

The priest did as he was told, and drank ofif 
the water without fear. He made a wry face. 
"It is bitter indeed in the mouth," he said; 
"but after it is down, sweeter than honey." 

Orsino watched him sharply for a moment 
or so, and then gave a sigh of relief. At least 
it was not immediately fatal. "And now, 
father, I shall go to sleep," he said: "We are 
never more sinless than when we slumber. 

[51] 



You will watch and pray for me in the ora- 
tory there. And keep the curtain looped — I 
would not willingly feel myself alone, when I 
awake." 



Sanazarro had made a rare escape. He 
was stunned and badly bruised, but had not a 
bone broken in his whole body; and the sur- 
geon who examined him did not know wheth- 
er to marvel more at the slightness of the 
injuries, considering how they had been got, or 
at the easy way in which the sculptor bore 
them, as grave as they were. But Sanazarro's 
body was of iron; the man who did such great 
work when he was in his seventh decade was 
not likely to fever or sicken of a few bruises 
at six and twenty. You may imagine how 
glad Ippolita was to hear this news, and how 
earnestly she longed to visit Sanazarro's bed- 
side. Two or three more wounded had been 
found still alive; and she went to the bed-side 
of each of these and sat a little and gave them 
cordials and good words. She was very glad, 
as she drew near Sanazarro's chamber door, 
that she had ever made it her habit to go 

[52] 



about freely amongst those who had been 
wounded in her husband's service. It had 
been heretofore an irksome and distasteful 
duty with her; but now virtue was recom- 
pensed, and she could go to Sanazarro with- 
out fear of scandal. He turned round in bed 
and began to ask pardon eagerly for his cruel 
behaviour of the night before; but she stopped 
him at once, telling him not to spoil their few 
quiet moments by such inharmonious recollec- 
tions, and sitting down beside him, took his 
hand in one of hers and began to stroke it with 
the other. Tears began to gather in the sculp- 
tor's eyes and follow each other down his 
cheeks. 

"Why do you weep?" she asked. 

"Do not think I am unhappy, my soul," he 
answered. 

She stooped over and kissed his forehead 
as he lay. "That is for your virtue of last 
night," she said, with a smile; "that is because 
you risked your life to save Orsino's." And 
she sat beside him holding his hand in silence, 
until they heard her woman coming with a 
cordial for which she had been sent; then 
Ippolita stood up and began to question him 

[53] 



about the skirmish, as she might have ques- 
tioned any other of those who had escaped. 

All that day, Orsino narrowly scrutinised 
the countenance of his confessor, and, as even- 
ing drew on and there was still no sign of any 
ill efifect, began to prepare himself for the re- 
ception of the miraculous water. His physi- 
cian had judged it best that it should be taken 
at night along with a powerful opiate, and 
that Orsino should not try to move until after 
he had slept ofif the one and given the other 
time to visit all parts of his body with its heal- 
ing influence; and though the confessor had 
objected to this, as it was a sort of practical 
infidelity in God's miraculous power, and an 
error in reasoning, besides, so to judge of a 
remedy that was purely supernatural as if it 
were a natural drug; still Orsino, out of a 
desire to make assurance doubly sure, had de- 
termined to combine the practical wisdom of 
the leech with the sanctity of the water. As 
the moment drew near, he grew more and more 
solicitous as to his spiritual disposition. He 
and the confessor were never weary of com- 
paring notes, as to the exact degree of faith 
necessary in the recipient of miraculous grace, 

[54] 



and the exact degree to which this signal pen- 
itent had yet attained. Thus, the hours 
passed, in prayer, in doctrinal-disquisition, 
and in the preparation and signature of pa- 
pers about property, of which the Duke had 
wrongfully possessed himself, and which he 
now promised to restore, if the miracle fell 
out according to expectation. There was but 
one difference between the pair. The eccle- 
siastic tried to convince Orsino that he should 
restore the property at once, in token of his 
zealous purpose to amend and make the future 
abundantly redeem the past. But the Duke 
would not hear of this; there must be a quid 
pro quo in the transaction, he averred; he 
would only humiliate himself before the world 
and become the mark of men's pointing fin- 
gers, he explained, if he restored all that he 
had won through a rough, arduous life, and 
the miracle were not forthcoming in the end. 
And so the priest desisted with a sigh, lest he 
should lose what he had already gained by 
trying for too much more. 

By ten o'clock, all the retainers were at 
prayer in the unfinished chapel of the palace; 
the townspeople were summoned by the great 



bell to the cathedral ; each man carried a taper 
and went bare-foot; there was much outward 
solemnity and devotion, although when whis- 
perers got together in the crowd, you might 
have heard a good deal of incredulous wit 
about the miracle, and Saint-Orsino (as they 
took to calling him), and the Jordan water. 
The Duke confessed himself, received plenary 
absolution and partook of the sacrament, with 
so much enthusiasm and his fancy running 
so high at the moment, that if you were to be- 
lieve himself, a miracle had already been 
wrought in his behalf. Then he drank off the 
remainder of the blessed water, the doctor 
administered the opiate, the lights were shad- 
ed, the priest fell to silent prayer in the ora- 
tory, and the penitent was soon asleep in hope 
of a miraculous restoration on the morrow. 

At an early hour, as the priest was still mut- 
tering prayers with a somewhat sleepy fer- 
vency, he felt a hand laid upon his shoulder, 
and beheld Orsino standing by him in a bed 
gown, his face lit up with joy as by sunlight. 
He had raised himself and walked thither, 
without help. Both knelt a while before the 
altar and returned thanks. Then the physi- 

[56] 



cian was summoned, and the Duchess and all 
the retainers and servants of the palace. The 
bell of the chapel passed the signal to the great 
bell of the Cathedral. The news flew from 
mouth to mouth, from house to house, from 
street to street. Those who were devout, went 
and prostrated themselves in the churches. 
Those who were loyal or politic, hung their 
houses with rich carpets and cast flowers upon 
the pavement. Those who were simply indif- 
ferent went, nevertheless, and drank wine at 
the public fountain. Those who were incred- 
ulous shook their heads and winked and made 
epigrams. But none among all who were as- 
tonished, were astonished so much as Bartolo- 
meo della Scala and his son, the beautiful 
Gian Pietro, who had carefully emptied the 
bottle and filled it again with putrid water 
from the town moat. . . 



Nearly a month went by without much ac- 
cident. Sanazarro worked on doggedly at 
the tomb. Orsino continued to mend and 
gather strength; and as he mended, he was 
ever less with the priest and more with his 

[57] 



uncle Cosmo. I could never hear that any 
but the most inconsiderable property was re- 
stored; but what was done in this way, was 
done with all the ostentation in the world. 
At last, came the day for the public thanksgiv- 
ing. Standing before the great door of the 
cathedral, Orsino confessed with a loud voice 
his sins against God and the townspeople, and 
vowed a different life in the future. He 
vowed also to lead back Bartolomeo by the 
hand, into the town from which he had wrong- 
fully expelled him years before. The coun- 
try should be no more wasted by this insensate 
feud. Peace, plenty and equal rule, in as far 
as it lay in his hands and in as far as God 
should help him — this was what he prom- 
ised to his subjects on that great occasion. 

And there the thing rested. Many golden 
words, some reforms in detail, a milder and 
perhaps a more equitable executive in all the 
states, and no more. It is true that there were 
continual preparations being made for the re- 
ception of Bartolomeo; it is true that a day 
had been fixed on which the Duke was to go 
to visit him in sackcloth and ask pardon for 
his misdeeds; and true also that Bartolomeo 

[58] 



had agreed to be entertained on the night fol- 
lowing at Orsino's palace. But the poor con- 
fessor was not satisfied; he began to guess 
shrewdly that all his sleepless nights had been 
somewhat thrown away; that Orsino's health 
had been restored, but not his heart renovated. 
One day, he lost patience and broke out. 

"My lord," he said, "you were raised some 
time ago by a miracle from the bed of death. 
Tempt not the living God, lest He cut you off 
as suddenly and strangely as He raised you 
up." 

The Duke pressed down the tip of his nose 
with his forefinger and puffed out his cheeks; 
his face became the very picture of humour- 
ous incredulity. 

"Why, as to miracle," he said, "as to mira- 
cle, father, let us not insist too far. It has a 
good sound; I would have the people continue 
to speak of it; I will even strike a medal and 
found a chapel in its commemoration. But on 
a little thought, dear father, you may remem- 
ber that I could move the night before the 
miracle.'''' 

The priest thereupon went away, and I think 
he had some matter for reflexion as he went. 

[S9] 



This was a very sad end for so glorious a 
story, was it not? 

This little bit of conversation may be dated, 
I believe, the day before Orsino's visit to Delia 
Scala's castle. If so, it would be on the next 
forenoon that Sanazarro threw open his work- 
shop for inspection; for the sculptor was very 
absolute, and played Michael-Angelo on a 
small scale in the palace: it was not every day 
of the week that an eager patron was allowed 
to mark the progress of his statues, as they 
grew towards shape and significance. And so 
when Orsino heard the good news, he did not 
hesitate to put off the period of his departure 
by some hours, and go immediately to the 
studio with his wife, his uncle, bandy-legged 
Cosmo, and a due following of gentlemen. 
The Duke, as I have said, had a refined and 
passionate appreciation of good art; and, as 
the sculptor had surpassed himself in the de- 
sign and, so far as it was finished, in the 
execution, his ecstasy was so natural and un- 
controlled that both Sanazarro and the Duch- 
ess blushed for pride and pleasure. Sudden- 
ly, as he was going from one part to another, 
full of graceful praise, fine appreciation, and 

[60] 



valuable criticism, he stayed for a moment be- 
fore one of the larger figures. 

''This is the Duchess," said he; and he 
looked sharply at the pair. Sanazarro pre- 
served an imperturbable countenance, but Ip- 
polita was plainly discomposed under his eyes. 
The Duke put his arm through the sculptor's 
in the most friendly manner: "This is a very 
graceful compliment, Signor," he said. "In 
the Duchess's name and in my own, I offer you 
all thanks. And now be so good as to tell me 
what fable, what allegory, what general con- 
ception, binds your design together; for I own 
I can scarcely understand the position of this 
admirable portrait-statue." 

"Indeed, my lord," replied Sanazarro, 
"your lordship understands art too well to 
force upon me so unfair a trial. Doubtless, 
when I designed the tomb, I had some such 
allegory as you desire before me; but my lord, 
I have described it in these figures, and cannot 
otherwise describe it without falling short or 
going too far. You will not ask me to carica- 
ture my own work, my lord." 

It is characteristic of Orsino, although he 
had put the question with an ulterior purpose, 

[6i] 



that this argument closed his mouth. He 
agreed cordially with Sanazarro, and contin- 
ued aloud to criticise and compliment the 
statues, while he was silently turning over a 
very different question in his mind. "Plainly 
there is an understanding between them," he 
thought. *'If I could but foster this, I might 
be rid of her with a good conscience, marry 
Isotta, and so save my soul alive;" for he had 
always one eye on eternity, even in his most 
criminal moments. At last it was time for 
him to trick himself out for the penitential 
visit to Bartolomeo. "Signor Sanazarro," he 
said, "I recommend my Duchess to your atten- 
tions. Ippolita, you have not tended enough 
upon our guest. Give him your hand into the 
garden." 

No sooner were these two alone in an open 
part of the garden, where no eavesdropper 
could come near them, than Sanazarro asked 
what this should signify. 

"Nay," she answered, "something evil. I 
had thought that if God raised him up by this 
wonder, he would have given him a new spirit. 
But it is not so. He has been already to visit 
that bad woman." 

[62] 



"Isotta!" ejaculated Sanazarro. 

The Duchess bowed. "I do not think," she 
continued, "that I shall abide here many days 
longer. I have done my utmost to forgive 
and better this man, and I will not stay to be 
degraded uselessly. It is well that we should 
not tempt Heaven either, my dear friend." 

"But you will tell me whither you go?" he 
asked. 

"Not so. We are weak creatures all. And 
remember this, that I have bright blood in my 
veins that does not fear death, but cannot bear 
dishonour. God keep us all from sin," she 
added, crossing herself. "Even now there are 
eyes upon us, I do not doubt. We must sep- 
arate, my friend. Make the tomb worthy of 
your genius. I doubt not, we shall meet again 
in God's justice, when we may dare to be hap- 
py." 

"This is not farewell?" he said. 

"Fear not," she answered. "I shall see you 
ere I go." 

The day went heavily for Sanazarro. He 
returned to the studio and sought to work, but 
it would not come from his hands; his head 
was full of fancies, but the power of execution 

[63] 



had deserted him; so he gave up the attempt 
and went out into the garden, driven by a dull 
restlessness. He found there a young man, a 
hired sword of Orsino's, — handsome, brave 
and utterly wicked, who had formed a sort of 
intimacy with the sculptor for the love of his 
statues, and was just then somewhat touched in 
the head with wine. 

"Have you your poniard sharp, Sanazarro?" 
he asked, coming up with an extravagant ges- 
ture. 

"Do you mean my chisel?" said the sculp- 
tor. "I am going but now to the wheel with 
it; though indeed, I fancy it was the hand that 
was heavy and not the poor instrument that 
was blunt." And he drew a chisel from a 
pouch at his girdle. 

The young man damned all double mean- 
ings heartily. "Your poniard, man," he re- 
iterated, — "your dagger — your little tickle- 
the-heart. Great death, Sanazarro, have you 
not heard the news?" And he steadied him- 
self by the full of the sculptor's sleeve. "Do 
you not know the ball's on for tomorrow night? 
God's malison, are you not ready to make an 
end of them?" 

[64] 



Sanazarro was stricken by a great doubt sud- 
denly; he led on the drunken mercenary, until 
he learned from him, that the next night's 
festival was meant only as a snare for Barto- 
lomeo and his son ; that, at an hour not yet de- 
cided, they should be slain while they slept, 
with a great uproar, and the rumor spread 
among the townsfolk that they had attempted 
their host's life by treachery, and justly fallen 
in the attempt. So soon as it was possible, he 
disengaged himself from his informant, and 
got away into an alley alone. The sun was 
down already, but the upper windows of the 
palace were all encrimsoned, and the barti- 
zans and turrettops and chimneys stood out 
against the veiled sky, as it were the colour of 
blood. Sanazarro put his hand before his 
eyes: Bartolomeo had been among his earliest 
patrons, and the blood upon that long line of 
pinnacles and windows was to him as the blood 
of his patron. He was not chary of life; but 
a horror rose up in his throat, like sickness, 
against the demon who had gone forth some 
hours ago upon his treacherous mission. As 
his thoughts began to collect themselves, how- 
ever, he overcame this physical oppression of 

[65] 



disgust, and became once more cool and prov- 
ident. He hurried to the gate nearest the 
palace, where he was well known to the ward- 
er and had been let out and in already at for- 
bidden hours, and arranged that, on the mor- 
row, the gate should be open, whatever incon- 
sistent consign should be given forth, on the 
payment of a small sum and the repetition of 
a certain watchword. While he was still chaf- 
fering there, the noise of a trumpet told him 
of the Duke's return. He hurried back to 
the palace. The confessor was the only per- 
son in whom he dared confide; and the con- 
fessor he hoped to find for a moment, ere the 
feast began. 

But Orsino, during his penitential ride, had 
found time for reflexion, and come to think 
differently of any intimacy between the sculp- 
tor and his wife. Somehow or other, he had 
succeeded in making himself jealous; and the 
first thing he had done, on his return, was to 
issue an order for the arrest of Sanazarro. 
At the same time, as he was not quite certain 
whether he might not go back again to his 
former scheme, and perhaps was a little 
ashamed of the proceeding, this arrest was to 

[66] 



be kept secret; the sculptor was to be reported 
on a visit to the marble quarries, and mean- 
while was to be used with no needless indig- 
nity. 

The captain of halberdiers charged with 
this duty, met Sanazarro as he went hither 
and thither seeking the confessor, and re- 
quested a few words with him in private. The 
sculptor, thinking no ill, followed down 
a corridor, until he found himself surround- 
ed by several men, and was bidden give up his 
sword. Resistance was impossible. He freed 
his rapier and surrendered it to the officer. 
He was led down a stair and along several 
passages, and then a door was opened, he was 
pushed into a cell, and heard the door locked 
behind him. 



At supper that evening, the Duke drank 
several glasses of a strong wine — too strong, 
as the result proved, for his head which was 
not yet very well assured. He grew flushed 
and voluble and fierce; he taunted his wife to 
her face about Sanazarro's statue; it was plain 
enough, he said, that the sculptor had seen his 

[67] 



model through rose-coloured glasses. "If 
you had been as beautiful as your minion 
makes you, we should have been faster friends, 
Signora;" and he began to compare her dis- 
paragingly — and in a grumbling but still 
quite audible undertone — with the more lux- 
uriant Isotta. Some of his worthless adher- 
ents tittered approvingly; and bandy-legged 
Cosmo leaned over and cracked a joke of his 
own in Orsino's ear, which set the Duke and 
two or three near him into open and insulting 
laughter. Ippolita had to bear herself with 
as good a grace as she could, meanwhile, and 
keep a composed demeanor under all these 
eyes. 

The next morning early she presented her- 
self before the Duke with a severe reverence, 
and requested his permission to go once again 
into the seclusion of a religious house; he was 
now reestablished in health, and she could be 
of no farther use to him in the capacity of 
nurse; in no other, she feared, was she fit to 
adorn his court. The Duke laughed heart- 
ily; he was glad that she should take some re- 
venge upon him for his last night's behaviour, 
with which (to say truth) he had not been al- 

[68] 



together satisfied on cool reflexion; he was 
glad that she should speak with irony, for it 
seemed to put them on a level. Nor was he 
much grieved at her request; in his better 
moments, he had just enough respect for his 
wife to find her presence a restraint on his 
free action; and besides, in his new whim of 
jealousy, he was pleased that she should be 
separated from Sanazarro. 

"My permission!" he said, repeating her 
words. "Nay, it is all the other way. Do 
me justice, Signora. I asked you very hum- 
bly to come to me when I was sick; now that 
I am well, I am afraid I must prepare myself 
to lose you. Whenever you cease to pity me, 
I understand very well that you begin to de- 
spise." And he made her a fine bow. 

"My lord," she said, "I wish I could tell 
you otherwise. But for this grace of yours 
in letting me go, I thank you from the heart." 

"Stay, though, stay," interrupted Orsino. 
"I cannot let you go before tomorrow. I de- 
sire your presence at the feast tonight. It 
would be but a lame ceremony, if my Duchess 
were absent, when I eat and drink in reconcil- 
iation with my old enemy." 

[69] 



"I shall never more eat at your board of 
my own free will. If you compel me, I fear 
my presence will not add to your mirth. I 
warn you I shall not care to dissemble my true 
feelings." 

"Then, Signora," the Duke answered with 
a laugh, "we were as well without you, as you 
say. Do this for me at least, and if you go 
this morning, cover your face with a thick 
veil, and speak to no one. In an hour's time, 
the escort shall await you at the postern; and 
I warn you it will be slender — we require all 
our men for tonight's pageantry." And kiss- 
ing her hand in a very gallant and airy man- 
ner, the Duke led her to the door. 

As soon as she was gone, Cosmo stepped 
forth from the oratory where he had been 
concealed throughout the interview. "You 
should have made her stay," he said. "Your 
wife gone, the half of your penitential credit 
goes with her. Bartolomeo will be ready to 
suspect the very walls." 

"Not so," replied Orsino. "The Duchess 
is indisposed this evening; she has fatigued 
herself nursing me during my sickness; to- 

[70] 



morrow, she will be better. The tale goes 
like a glove." 

Just then Lippo entered the room; and Or- 
sino whispered a few phrases in his ear, of 
which Cosmo caught no more than the word 
"Isotta." The man went to the door, and 
then returned and whispered back again, as 
though he were not sure of having rightly 
comprehended. "No, no," said the Duke, 
with a stamp. "Where are your seven wits? 
In the Belvedere." The valet nodded and 
withdrew; and his master remained for some 
seconds in thought, and in thought that was 
seemingly disagreeable to him, for his brows 
were gathered together darkly, and his under- 
lip was drawn in, as in a timorous uncertainty. 
"God have mercy upon me," he said, at last, 
"this is like the mad wicked old days before 
my chastisement." 

"Not dissimilar truly," returned Cosmo. 

"I fear I am a great backslider," said the 
Duke; and he fell actively to his beads. 

The older man put his hand on the other's 
shoulder, and shook him: "Leave me these 
playthings alone," he said. "You may go 

[71] 



back to your prayers tomorrow; but today is 
the day for business." 

Orsino hesitated, and looked from his chap- 
let to the severe visage of his uncle, and back 
again from Cosmo to the beads. "I wish I 
knew whether or not it was a miracle," he 
said with a sigh. And then the two fell to 
their preparations in all seriousness. 

Ippolita was astonished to hear of Sanazar- 
ro's departure, the night before, to the marble 
quarries; she was even a little offended that 
he should thus have gone without a word. 
But she had no time for reflexion: before the 
hour was out, she and her maid, both closely 
veiled, were hurried through the postern and, 
with an escort of three horsemen, took the road 
that leads north-eastward into the hills. 



The sculptor awoke late on the morning of 
the fatal day. The cell was full of sunshine 
already. As he had not been searched, he 
still had his chisel in his pouch, and a brief 
examination of the door showed him that he 
could free himself by the labour of half an 

[72] 



hour; but as the corridor sounded all day long 
with the passage of many feet, he judged it 
wiser to wait until the feast began, when the 
whole household would be concentrated about 
the kitchen and the hall, and there would be 
few to come and go about this remote wing. 
The time passed heavily, and he had many 
grave anxieties to torment him. If he had 
been arrested because the Duke was jealous, 
might not the same fate have befallen Ippo- 
lita? Even if she were free, he feared some 
mischance in the confusion of the massacre. 
He was eaten up with impatience, and paced 
his prison as a wild beast paces its cage. From 
without he could hear carpenters hammering 
at the great platform on which the Duke's 
private actors were to represent an allegorical 
play, written by the Duke's private poet. As 
the day drew on, this noise dropped off, ham- 
mer by hammer, until it had entirely ceased: 
the stage was ready. Soon after, there was a 
long flourish of drums and trumpets in the dis- 
tance; at the same moment all the bells of the 
town fell a-ringing; and Sanazarro knew that 
Orsino and his guest had entered the gate amid 
a mighty acclamation of the mob. The 

[73] 



shouting drew nearer; until at last it halted 
just outside the palace, and there redoubled 
and grew more confused : the company were 
taking their places for the spectacle. Then 
the trumpets sounded once more, the roar of 
the mob settled down with a growl into silence, 
only disturbed, for the space of an hour, by the 
thin tones of the actors declaiming inaudible 
verses, by a little half-suppressed applause 
now and then from the audience, and now and 
then a roll on the drums or a blast upon the 
trumpets to accentuate some important mo- 
ment of the action. The piece came to an end 
amid general satisfaction; the mob dispersed 
slowly as the sun went down; and Sanazarro 
was left to count time by the bell until the 
feast should begin. 

The beginning of the feast was marked by 
a sudden outburst of music in the palace: the 
Duke's orchestra was playing an induction. 
And now doubtless traitors and betrayed were 
dipping together in the same salt-dish, bowing 
and smiling one to another and drinking sol- 
emnly to peace and friendship in the future. 
Sanazarro set to work upon the lock with his 
chisel. It was an easier matter even than he 

[74] 



had supposed; for the stone was planed al- 
ready and fell away in so large a lump that the 
fragment served him thenceforward as chisel. 
The bolt was soon laid bare, the door opened 
inwards without resistance, and the sculptor 
was free. He hastily visited the doors of the 
other cells, beat upon them and called upon 
the inmates to say who they were. From some 
there came no answer but the hollow rever- 
beration of his own blows; from others differ- 
ent voices replied to him, some mockingly, 
some evidently excited to a brief hope of lib- 
eration; but nowhere the voice of Ippolita. 
Sanazarro passed his hand over his brow; he 
was certain that Orsino would not cast her 
into a dungeon; certain, therefore, that she 
was free. 

As he had supposed, this wing of the palace 
was silent and deserted; but as he drew near 
to the great hall the noise of steps, the clatter 
of dishes, the gay inarticulate babble of many 
voices came, as it were, to meet him. At last 
he saw light at the end of the dark corridor 
he followed; and in the light, many servants 
going hurriedly to and fro between the feast 
and the kitchen. He did not know, of course, 

[75] 



that his emprisonment had been kept a secret, 
and would willingly have avoided curious 
eyes; but he had no choice; to reach his own 
chamber it was necessary to put on a bold face 
and go through the thick of the bustle and by 
the doors of the very room in which the ca- 
rouse went noisily forward. He held his 
breath as he did so; but no one sought to stay 
him ; no one — so great was the hurry — found 
time so much as to look him between the eyes; 
and he could tell himself, when he had fin- 
ished this perilous traject and got upstairs be- 
tween the lines of flaring torches, that he had 
escaped recognition by any. The torches went 
no higher than the first double flight of stairs 
(a sure sign that all the great guests had their 
billets on the first floor), and Sanazarro was 
hurrying on yet higher, in the sort of scanty 
twilight of a few candles posted here and 
there at wide intervals along the walls, when 
he almost fell over a couple of the Duke's 
valets coming down a side passage. He fell 
back with an incontrollable impulse for self- 
defence, and drew the chisel — the only wea- 
pon left to him. But the two men saluted 
him quite respectfully, wished the Signor San- 

[76] 



azarro a good evening, and passed on, judging 
him probably in his cups. Without further 
accident he reached his own apartment, and 
having provided himself with his favourite 
sword and dagger, and all his money and jew- 
els, returned again to the first landing of the 
stair. Here, behind some hangings and at a 
place whence he could see out through the di- 
vision of two widths, he concealed himself and 
waited till the company should retire. Pos- 
sibly, even as they passed, he might find the 
opportunity to let slip a word of caution. . . 
His heart beat very fast, you may imagine, 
as the hours went on. The uproar in the hall 
dwindled not, but rather increased; and there 
were songs, from time to time, and pieces of 
music by the orchestra. At last, towards mid- 
night, he heard the sound of feet and voices 
near at hand. An officer, flushed with drink, 
and very gay, proceeded to line the stair and 
the passage with alternate halberdiers and men 
carrying flambeaux. All the men had been 
drinking, as well as the officer; and there was 
a great deal of laughing among them, and 
many jests that were plain enough to Sana- 
zarro, though they might not have been very 

[77] 



comprehensible to anyone unacquainted with 
the intended treachery. A brawny halberdier 
was posted just in front of him, so that he 
scarcely dared to breathe; and the next few 
minutes went very irksomely with the poor 
sculptor, cramped up behind the hangings. 
He had not long, however, of such penance. 
The orchestra began an energetic finale; there 
was a good deal of faint cheering; the halber- 
diers and flambeaux-bearers pulled themselves 
together and were silent. Then Sanazarro 
saw, over the shoulder of the man in front of 
him, a princely party coming up the wide 
staircase between the lines of attendants. Or- 
sino came first, leading Bartolomeo by the 
hand; and then Cosmo holding the hand of 
Gian Pietro; and behind them a goodly com- 
pany of pages and officers and petty nobles, 
attached to either family. All seemed the 
worse of drink, at the first glance; but, as they 
continued to pass before him, a disquieting 
suspicion forced itself into the sculptor's mind 
and grew ever more and more certain. It 
seemed to him that all, whether hosts or guests, 
whether followers of Orsino or Bartolomeo, 
were making much of their intoxication, were 

[78] 



not really so drunken as they would give them- 
selves out for. He seemed to detect sober 
glances passing from one to another, and a fold 
of gravity on the most exalted looking counte- 
nance. The foot tripped, and the tongue 
spoke foolishly; but, in more instances than 
one, Sanazarro would have laid a long wager 
that the mind was not much perturbed. 

As this procession went by him and disap- 
peared down the long corridor, the music died 
away in the hall below; and the men on the 
stair shouldered their halberts, extinguished 
their torches and trooped ofT laughing to the 
guard room. Sanazarro was just about to 
separate the hangings and come forth, when 
he heard voices and steps returning, and Or- 
sino and his uncle went past again in close con- 
versation, and stopped, not ten feet from his 
hiding-place, at the top of the stair. 

"No," said Cosmo, "nothing, I grant. To 
a desire." 

"And you saw, too," returned the Duke, evi- 
dently continuing some train of argument, 
"they made no difficulty about Ippolita's ab- 
sence. They believed she was still in the 
palace." 

[79] 



"I imagine they did." 

"Well then, I was right to let her go quietly, 
was I not? It is easier to tell a falsehood than 
to pacify a discontented woman." 

''Like enough," replied the uncle, "like 
enough;" and he descended the stair, while 
Orsino turned and went warily back by the 
way he had come. 

Sanazarro's mind was set at rest about the 
Duchess; she was safe out of the palace, it was 
plain, and he had a shrewd guess he should 
find her, whenever he wanted, at the old nun- 
nery among the hills; so he had his mind free 
for the immediate interests of the night. He 
came out of his concealment, and tried to 
imagine where Bartolomeo would most prob- 
ably be set to sleep. After passing under re- 
view all the apartments of the first floor, he 
pitched upon one as the most probable — he 
could hardly have told why — and, without 
knowing very distinctly what he wished to do, 
set ofif stealthily along the corridor towards it. 
He was burthened by a dreadful sense of inse- 
curity; he knew that behind these shut doors 
there were no sleepers, but men waiting for a 
signal, with bright eyes and their swords across 

[80] 



their knees; at any moment the storm might 
burst; it seemed as if the floor was alive and 
quaked under his steps. Suddenly, he stood 
still. A cold sweat burst out over his body. 
Yes, he was right; there was a footfall in the 
corridor besides his own, a stealthy treacher- 
ous footfall drawing near to meet him. He 
stepped back into the shadow of a doorway 
and waited, with his hand on his dagger. It 
was a poor shelter; but there was none other 
within reach, and the new-comer (whoever 
he was) might turn the corner at any moment. 
Nor had the sculptor long to wait. Orsino 
himself, on tiptoes, with hands held up to bal- 
ance him, and eyes fixed wakefuUy on the 
empty air, as he gave up his whole spirit to the 
task of walking without noise — Orsino, in a 
hat and cloak, brushed close by him and was 
gone upon the instant. Where could he be 
going? What black business had he on hand? 
It was plainly secret, even from Cosmo. For a 
moment the sculptor stood bewildered; then 
he made up his mind and stole after the Duke. 
It was easy enough to follow unobserved 
along the corridor. But the stair gave a great 
advantage to the chase; and when the pursuer 

[8i] 



gained the groundfloor, he whom he was pur- 
suing had disappeared. Many passages 
branched off from the foot of the stair — it 
was not the great stair, but a private flight in 
the west wing; and as there was no reason for 
choosing any one instead of another, Sanazarro 
paused, irresolute. As he was thus standing, 
he heard the creak of a hinge, and a little puff 
of fresh night air from the garden blew upon 
his face and made the lights wink and the 
shadows bestir themselves along the dim gal- 
leries. This was indication sufficient, and next 
moment the artist had opened the private door 
and stood, almost dazzled, on the threshold. 
The orange tufts and paved alleys of the gar- 
den were displayed in strange detail and relief 
by a flood of vivid moonlight; the very 
shadows looked solid, and one would have 
feared to walk upon them if they had not 
moved with the wind. Down the centre al- 
ley, Sanazarro saw the cloaked figure of the 
Duke moving away swiftly, like a blot upon 
the intense white light. A turbulent crowd 
of recollections surged into his brain and dis- 
appeared again. This centre alley led to the 
Belvedere; the Duke had renewed his rela- 

[82] 



tions with Isotta; probably the massacre was 
not to begin until some dead hour of the morn- 
ing; and my lord would grow weary if he sat 
in his own room to wait the fatal signal. Such 
levity on an occasion of so much tragic import 
would have been incredible on the part of 
most men ; but it was by no means inconsistent 
with the known character of Orsino. These 
were, in fact, the sort of incongruities that had 
an attraction like that of a precipice for his dis- 
ordered fancy. And he was never content un- 
less he were strongly moved, whether by pas- 
sion or religion, or the uncertain issue of some 
piece of perilous or desperate policy. This 
avidity for violent sensations was with him a 
mode of cowardice that often stood in the 
stead, and played the part of bravery. All 
this passed through Sanazarro's brain in the 
least interval of time. Whether or not he was 
right in his conclusion, he could not doubt 
the importance of the opportunity now afford- 
ed him. Orsino slain, a death blow would be 
dealt to the whole plan of massacre; just when 
it was ripe, it would be troubled and diverted; 
and while the traitors were looking for their 
absent leader, the betrayed might have the 

[83] 



more time to escape or to fortify their position. 
He did not hesitate. Loosening his rapier in 
the sheath, he followed the faster after his 
quarry. 

The Duke was perhaps half way between 
the palace and the Belvedere, when the sound 
of Sanazarro's footsteps reached his ears. He 
started and turned round. The sculptor did 
not trust himself to articulate any word, lest 
his voice should be recognised as that of one 
not privy to the night's undertaking; but he 
waved his arm significantly and gave vent to a 
long "hist!" Orsino stopped and waited, ap- 
parently not without great anxiety; for he 
moved uneasily, put his hand twice to his 
sword and at last, when the sculptor was al- 
ready close to him, drew it suddenly and fell 
on guard. Sanazarro followed his example, 
and the blades met. "Aha! my sculptor!" 
cried the Duke; and he laughed cruelly. He 
knew himself to be a fine swordsman, but for- 
got, in his excitement, how long he had been 
out of practice and how much weakness had 
been left upon him by his recent sickness. The 
fight endured, perhaps, a minute and a half. 
Then Sanazarro's blade passed through the 

[84] 



Duke's sword arm; and the latter, throwing 
away his weapon, falling on the ground and 
putting up his hands as if to shield himself, 
cried out in a terrible shrill voice that he was 
not fit to die. But the sculptor did not stop 
to listen to him, and drove his rapier three 
times through the Duke's body till the point 
rang upon the pavement. Then he stopped 
and put his hand to his heart. Even in recol- 
lection, the tones in which the miserable devil 
had cried out for mercy, chilled and horrified 
him. He had killed men before, but never 
any who had not met death courageously. 

And as he thus stood, he became gradually 
conscious that there had been other noises in 
his ear whilst he fought, besides the ring of the 
blades, the grinding of teeth and the quick- 
ened measure of his own arteries. There was 
a great uproar in the palace, that grew greater 
moment by moment; and as he turned in be- 
wilderment he saw light flickering up uncer- 
tainly behind the windows, like a fire that the 
wind blows upon, as though men bearing 
torches were being thrust hither and thither 
in a desperate afifray. As he turned, also, he 
became aware of sounds yet more distant. 

[85] 



From these sounds, the lower part of the town 
should be full of horsemen galloping. There 
came a volley of firearms, and then random 
shots dropping ofif here and there along the 
streets, as though some body of musketeers 
had been dispersed, and the fugitives stopped 
ever and again as they ran, to fire another shot 
on their pursuers. The great bell of the ca- 
thedral began suddenly to ring out a tocsin, 
and ceased as suddenly; the rope had been cut, 
or the ringer slain. 

Sanazarro began dimly to comprehend; the 
treason had been double, although fixed for 
different hours; the town had been carried 
by a surprise ; La Scala was master and the Or- 
sini, outwitted and outnumbered, were selling 
their lives dearly on the scene of their intend- 
ed crime. There was one course only before 
him; and that was to make good his own es- 
cape. The stables of the palace were not far 
distant; and as the sentinels had already taken 
the alarm and fled, there was no one to prevent 
him from helping himself to a strong steed, 
out of many that stood ready caparisoned for 
the enterprise of the night. At the gate, also, 
all went well for him. The warder was wait- 

[86] 



ing on the threshhold of his lodge, only anxi- 
ous to know the cause of all this to-do at the 
palace, and what, under the circumstances, 
would be the wisest course for a poor gate- 
keeper to adopt. "Leave the gate open, and 
get into the nearest thicket for your life!" 
Sanazarro shouted to him, as he galloped of? 
along the road that leads north-eastward into 
the hills. 

At the top of the first rising ground, he drew 
bridle and looked back. A tongue of flame 
played out of one of the upper windows of 
the palace. "My poor statues !" he thought to 
himself, and he had half a mind, for a moment, 
to go back and seek to rescue them. But a 
statue, after all, is only a statue, and a mis- 
tress is a mistress; and Sanazarro had a sense 
of power in him yet unexhausted, and felt sure 
that his brain would conceive, and his hands 
execute, statues still more beautiful than these. 
Let the dead past bury its dead; and let him 
go forward to his better inspiration through 
the night. 

Just about dawn, he met three horsemen 
face to face upon the road; and one of these 
stopped and made him a salute. The Duchess, 

[87] 



he said, had given him this letter for the hands 
of Master Sanazarro privately. The sculptor 
took it, and glanced it over: it told how she 
had been obliged to leave without seeing him, 
how he might rest satisfied of her love and 
preference over all men, and how, for her sake, 
he should not seek to learn where she had 
found a refuge. He asked the messenger 
where he had left the Duchess; but [the] man 
only laughed and said he could keep his own 
counsel as well as the lady could keep hers. 
Sanazarro bit his lip, and the blood came into 
his face; he felt a truly masculine sense of 
shame — that he should have let out to these 
hired knaves how little he was in his lady's 
confidence. So he saluted them, told them 
somewhat bitterly of what reception they were 
like to meet with at the town, and rode on 
again, without so much as offering them 
wherewithal to drink his health, and pursued 
for many a mile by an abiding sense of dis- 
grace. 

He still believed that Ippolita would return 
to the old convent in the hills, where they had 
first met; but he had now become gloomy and 
dogged; certain expressions in the letter 

[88] 



seemed scarcely compatible with so obvious 
a retreat. And in his doubt and irritation, he 
spurred the poor horse so unmercifully that, 
some time before noon and about a league be- 
low the convent, he was fain to leave it behind 
him at a little wayside hostel, and make the 
best of his way forward on foot. The early 
spring of that favoured country was already 
well advanced; and the sun grew so powerful 
that he had to desert the highroad and take to 
a steep path through a piece of woodland. 

Insensibly, as he followed this pleasant way, 
his irritation was calmed, and a good spirit 
grew upon him whether he would or not. A 
little wind blew, now and then among the fol- 
iage, and stirred the lights and shadows over 
the new-fledged grass. And even when the 
air was still, there was a sentiment of life in 
the mere distribution of the light and dark- 
ness, as here and there a single ray shot vividly 
through some opening in the texture of the 
wood, or a whole sheaf of them plunged down 
at once and made a little lit space in the shad- 
ow. From time to time, also, he was visited 
by wandering perfumes, sometimes by the 
faint odour of violet beds, and sometimes by 

[89] 



the strong smell of the sunshine among firs. 
He felt the springtime through to his bones; 
and though he sought (as a man will, when he 
is in love) to exaggerate his evils and keep 
himself in a true martyr's humour, for the 
very life of him he could not withhold his 
lips from smiling, or keep his step from grow- 
ing lighter as he went. At length he beheld 
some way before him, on the left hand, a little 
grey stone chapel, not much more considerable 
than a country wine cooler, shut with iron 
gates and approached by three steps, all grown 
over with a glory of red anemones. The iron 
gates were open; and just as he first set his 
eyes on them, they were opened something 
farther, and the figure of a woman came forth 
into the broken sunlight of the grove. It was 
Ippolita. His heart stood still for joy. He 
saw a great start go through her, and then she 
moved no more, but waited for him quietly 
upon the lowest step of the three that led up 
into the little chapel. 



[90] 



APPENDIX 

The text of When the Devil was Well has 
been given in the preceding pages, precisely 
in the state in which the author seems to have 
intended to leave it, with the exception of a 
few obvious corrections and one phrase which 
it is assumed Stevenson would have dropped 
at a reviser's suggestion. All changes which 
he appears to have made in the process of 
composition are entered here, with practically 
no exceptions, and are distinguished by the 
initials R. L. S. The comments and sugges- 
tions made by the several revisers of the manu- 
script are also entered, and the initials T. S. 
are appended to such as seem to be in the hand 
of Thomas Stevenson. How many of these 
annotations produced an effect upon the text 
as Stevenson left it, is probably not to be de- 
termined with any accuracy. Had he printed 
the story without copying it, he might have re- 

[9-] 



tained many changes suggested by others 
which it has not seemed proper to incorporate 
in the present text. 

Page 19, line i. — When, — T. S. suggested 
When the wicked. He also wished to have 
Duke Orsino changed throughout to Count 
Orso. For finally, T. S. suggested fairly. 

Page 19, line 2. — Ippolita, — R. L. S. orig- 
inally continued {it would be hard to say 
whether it was out of fear for her family, or 
from one of those occasional returns of a better 
spirit that now and then surprised him) j he 
made no difficulty. This was all struck out, as 
was also another he made, after which the text 
proceeded as printed. 

Page 19, line 4. — The palace, — R. L. S. first 
wrote his for the. 

Page 19, line 5. — to, — R. L. S. first wrote of. 
nunnery, — ^T. S. suggested convent, and re- 
peated the suggestion elsewhere. 

Page 19, line 7. — good, — T. S. suggested 
gentle. 

Page 19, line 9. — years; and day, — T. S. 
suggested years; day, and commented, "all 
this is rather too long in the saying." 

[92] 



Page 19, line 12. — seemed, — R. L. S. first 
wrote seemed even. 

Page 19, line 13. — din, — R. L. S. first wrote 
turmoil, all, — R. L. S. first wrote and all. 

Page 19, line 14. — dim . . . earth, — T. S., 
who must have recognized his son's acquaint- 
ance with the opening of Milton's "Comus," 
underlined and commented, "din and passion 
of earth is plenty." 

Page 19, line 16. — if life, — R. L. S. first 
wrote // it. 

Page 20, line 3. — or the, — R. L. S. first 
wrote and. 

Page 20, line 4. — Court life, — R. L. S. first 
wrote worldly life. He may possibly have 
started to write courtier for court. T. S., com- 
menting on poor .... poor, wrote, "There 
was nothing poor about court life in Italy,^^ 
and suggested that the passage be made to read 
without being made the witness of crimes and 
treasons and cruelties. 

Page 20, line 5. — even the, — T. S. struck out. 

Page 20, line 7. — overthrown, — T. S. struck 
out, and suggested broken. 

Page 20, line 11-13. — sculptor . . . archi- 
tect, — T. S. wished this passage to read, mas- 

[93] 



ter-sculptor, who (as was the way in those 
days) was an architect also, and a painter too. 
His marginal comment was, "Here 'bit of 
indicates an amateurishness which is out of 
place. He would begin with being maestro di 
pietra & the rest in order." 

Page 20, line 16. — Sanazarro, — So R. L. S. 
spells consistently. T. S. commented, "Lando^ 
say (short for Orlando), a manly kind of 
name, and belonged to some artists." Through- 
out the MS. he frequently underscored Sana- 
zarro to call attention to his disapprobation of 
the name. In the present passage he also 
wished to substitute artist's for sculptor's. 

Page 20, line 21. — her, — R. L. S. first wrote 
her at first, later changing the position of the 
phrase. 

Page 20, line 24. — tranquil sorrow^ — R. L. 
S. first wrote placid sorrow. 

Page 21, line i. — nun, — T. S. wished this to 
be changed to sister. So eight lines below he 
wished female to become angel. It is hard to 
say whether, in some of these cases, R. L. S. 
accepted the suggestion or rejected it. With 
regard to the whole passage, T. S. commented 
in the margin, ''I think a point or two ought to 

[94] 



be added — have a pious merchant from the 
neighbouring city determined to bestow an 
altar-piece, and send young Lando to execute 
the commission, and how he lodged in a house 
overlooking the garden." 

Page 21, line 4. — divine, — R. L. S., whose 
spelling was often shaky, seems to have written 
devine. 

Page 21, line 13. — nun, — T. S. again wished 
to read sister, and wrote in the margin, "she 
wasn't a nun you see." 

Page 21, line 23-24. — the painting of that 
nun, — T. S. wrote in the margin, that Sister 
for a model. 

Page 22, line 5. — neighbourhood, — R. L. S. 
wrote nieghbourhood. 

Page 22, line 12. — seen the face, — R. L. S. 
first wrote set his eyes after moment. 

Page 22, line 18. — Duchess of Orsino, — T. 
S. suggested wife of the Count Orso. 

Page 22, line 23. — that she should, — T. S. 
suggested to. 

Page 23, line i. — himself, — After this R. L. 
S. wrote, and then struck out, the short para- 
graph, ''True," said the Abbess. 

Page 23, line 3. — Mythological subject, — T. 

[95] 



S. struck out and wrote, matter of gods and 
goddesses, and added in the margin, ''alcuni 
Dei the usual sort of phrase for a mythology." 

Page 23, line 17. — Now, — At first R. L. S. 
did not begin a new paragraph here, but later 
he made a cross and wrote "N. L." i. e., new 
line, in the margin, being probably not yet 
familiar with correcting manuscripts and 
proofsheets. desired, — T. S. struck out and 
wrote would do much. 

Page 23, line 20-21. — and . . . fancy, — R. 
L. S. wrote and struck out along before a long. 
T. S. struck out the passage. 

Page 23, line 21. — at once, — T. S. struck 
out, and again insisted on Countess for Duch- 



ess. 

Page 24, line 4. — ere, — R. L. S. first wrote 
when. 

Page 24, line 5. — Grace, — T. S. suggested in 
the margin ladyship (sua Signoria). 

Page 24, line 7-8. — Materials for embroide- 
ry, — T. S. changed to embroidery frames & 
wools. 

Page 24, line 15. — Archbishop's, — Here, as 
often, R. L. S. omitted the apostrophe. Here- 
after such corrections will be made silently. 

[96] 



Page 24, line 23. — Signor, — T. S. wrote in 
the margin, Messer Lando. 

Page 25, line 4. — painting, — R. L. S. may 
have struck out the comma after this word. 
Often, when, — R. L. S. first wrote // ever. 

Page 25, line 7. — lips, — R. L. S. began and 
obliterated some word, and then wrote and 
struck out somehow. 

Page 25, line 10. — shadowed, — R. L. S. be- 
gan and nearly finished the word stanchioned, 
which he proceeded to use immediately below. 

Page 25, line 15. — silently, — This seems to 
have been inserted by R. L. S. as an after- 
thought. 

Page 25, line 19. — limes, — Some one, ap- 
parently not T. S., wrote in the margin, "I 
never saw limes in Italy." 

Page 25, line 24. — the two, — R. L. S. wrote 
first and struck out they. Along the margin of 
this entire paragraph someone, apparently the 
person who had not seen limes in Italy, drew a 
line and commented "Excellent." 

Page 26, line 17-19. — with, . . . carriage, 
— Opposite in the margin the unknown hand 
has written "Good." 

Page 26, line 21. — When the, — R. L. S. 

[97] 



originally added, then struck out, embarrass- 
ment of the. 

Page 26, line 26. — the window, — T. S., or 
some other reviser wished to read his chamber 
window. 

Page 27, line 4-5. — the gardener, — T. S., or 
some other reviser, inserted old. 

Page 27, line 12. — dressings . . . fresh, — 
T. S., or some other reviser, suggested plasters 
[?] for green. 

Page 27, line 17. — sweet consciousness of 
gait, — T. S., or some other reviser, underlined 
and wrote in the margin "C'est beau." A line 
on the margin seems to indicate that part of 
the next sentence similarly impressed the an- 
notator, of whose identity at this point in the 
MS. it is hard to make sure. 

Page 27, line 18. — was, — R. L. S. wrote 
nearest after this word, then changed to the 
text as it stands. 

Page 27, line 24-25. — in an, — R. L. S. first 
wrote after an. 

Page 27, line 25-26. — Once even, she raised, 
— This seems to have stood originally even, 
raised. 

Page 28, line 3-4. — colour .... gait. — T. 

[98] 



S. seems to have marked approval by a line in 
the margin, and to have struck out of gait. In 
the next sentence he struck out adorable. 

Page 28, line 7. — sometimes to, — R. L. S. 
struck out dry her eyes, which he had inad- 
vertently repeated. 

Page 28, line 15. — face, — R. L. S. added, 
and struck out, no longer. 

Page 28, line 17. — good, wise, — R. L. S. 
seems to have inserted and later, then to have 
struck it out. 

Page 29, line 6. — little opportunities, — R. 
L. S. struck out little, then restored it. 

Page 29, line 8. — join, — R. L. S. first wrote 
be in. The passage is marked, by T. S. seem- 
ingly, with a line in the margin accompanied 
by the comment, "This is good, but I am not 
sure whether it is not too long, and the manner 
too prattling and familiar for an ideal subject 
like this." 

Page 29, line 19-20. — and Ippolita . . . . 
paint, — Here someone, not clearly T. S., has 
drawn a line in the text and one in the margin, 
and written "good." 

Page 29, line 21. — its, — Here and elsewhere 
we find R. L. S. writing it's. 

[99] 



Page 29, line 23. — hourly, — R. L. S. first 
wrote daily. 

Page 30, line 5. — brushes, stood, — R. L. S. 
first wrote, brushes, and stood. 

Page T,o^ line 8. — mild, — the handwriting 
does not permit one to be certain that R. L. S. 
did not write wild. 

Page 30, line 12-13. — This .... died, — 
these words are underscored in pencil; then the 
entire passage to the end of the paragraph is 
struck out by several pencil lines, and there are 
lines and comments in the margin. The first 
comment, in a hand not determinably one hi- 
therto encountered, runs "/ don't see that!" 
Then follows, in apparently T. S.'s hand, 
"That's Stephen's observation and agrees with 
mine. S." A little lower in the margin T. S. 
seems to have written "Rather mild work this 
for a full blown Italian Duchess!" The "Ste- 
phen" referred to seems clearly to have been 
Leslie Stephen. 

Page 30, line 21. — confidently on, — R. L. S. 
first wrote confidently and caressing upon. 

Page 31, line 5. — sorrow, — R. L. S. first 
wrote a long longing. 

Page 31, line 7. — from, — R. L. S. wrote 

[ 100] 



first, then struck out, a word which seems to 
have been from with the / of the added. 

Page 31, line 10. — sunlight, — R. L. S. first 
wrote sunshine. 

Page 31, line 15. — beyond, — R. L. S. first 
wrote over. 

Page 31, line 19. — below, — R. L. S. first 
wrote below him. 

Page 31, line 21. — slowly, — R. L. S. here 
made a cross to indicate a footnote, then im- 
mediately below wrote 'Toot note," repeated 
the cross, and enclosed the whole in parenthe- 
ses. One or perhaps two of his readers placed 
in the margin the words "better out," a line, 
and a large interrogation mark. Here, and at 
each division of his story, R. L. S. drew a curi- 
ous ornamental device. 

Page 32, line 8. — bed-ridden, — R. L. S., 
who had just inadvertently written no for now, 
originally repeated confined from two lines 
above. 

Page 32, line 9. — vigour, — T. S. (?) ques- 
tioned the propriety of this word as well as 
that of greater in line 19 below. 

Page 32, line 16. — of the new chapel, — T. 
S. wrote in the margin "don't let there be any 

[lOl] 



risk of confusion between this and the convent 
chapel." 

Page 32, line 26. — sands were, — T. S. sug- 
gested sand was. been, — R. L. S. originally 
added, requested to come back to the Palace, 
the last word serving as catchword to the page, 
— ^ catchwords being used throughout the man- 
uscript. The passage was then stricken out, 
and recalled was used as catchword, from, — 
R. L. S. originally added here her retreat, then 
substituted the more detailed phrasing of the 
text. 

Page 33, line 3. — Isotta, — T. S. — although 
the hand is larger than his generally is — com- 
ments in the margin, ^^Diamante a good name 
for a courtesan." 

Page 33, line 6. — very, — T. S. struck out. 
He also struck out to a not very reputable life 
in the next line. 

Page 33, line 9. — before, — R. L. S. first 
wrote even before. 

Page 33, line 9. — at least, — T. S. struck out. 

Page 33, line 10. — Bartolomeo della Scala, 
— R. L. S. used both de la and della. T. S. sug- 
gested in the margin Ercole Manfredi. 

[ 102] 



Page 33, line ii. — driven, — R. L. S. first 
wrote driven indeed. 

Page 33, line i6. — Towards, — R. L. S. struck 
out and then retained. January, — R. L. S. first 
wrote February, he, — R. L. S. followed with 
it, which he struck out, as he did also after the 
parenthesis the words as Sanazarro. T. S. sug- 
gested instead of the parenthesis, on whom the 
Count's choice had fallen. 

Page 33, line 20. — coming, — R. L. S. seems 
to have begun to write go. 

Page 33, line 23. — Monks, — T. S. suggested 
friars, in, — R. L. S. wrote and struck out be- 
tween the. 

Page 23, line 25. — secrecy, — R. L. S. began 
the next sentence with a clause which he then 
struck out. Although the house had been much 
visited of ecclesiastics in the last few months. 
Then after Sanazarro he struck out had never 
before seen so many or seen them so much. 

Page 33, line 26 — Page 34, line i. — to . . . 
and, — R. L. S. first wrote such a goodly com- 
pany as this, — later, apparently, changing 
the period to a comma. 

Page 34, line 3. — thoroughfare, — T. S. sug- 

[ 103] 



gested, coming and going. Death, — R. L. S. 
first wrote, The End. 

Page 34, line 13. — ''tomorrow", — R. L. S. 
continued for a time, and then struck out the 
words. 

Page 34, line 17. — A sight of, — T. S. com- 
mented in the margin, " 'a sight of is rank 
vulgarism." sick, — R. L. S. first wrote ///. 

Page 34, line 18. — doctors, — R. L. S. wrote 
after this word, and then struck out, and tried. 

Page 34, line 20. — consult, — The sentence 
ending here was much altered by R. L. S. He 
first continued after benefit with the follow- 
ing: and it was a question, since he had always 
lived so ill, and showed a disposition to die in 
the odour of sanctity, whether it would not be 
better for himself and the world at large, that 
he should pass quietly away and get to Heaven 
while he had the chance. This was all struck 
out, and in the margin a sign (*A) was in- 
serted to direct the reader to the verso of 1. 11 
lying opposite the recto of 1. 12, where the 
sign and benefit were repeated, and the sub- 
stituted words were given as in the text. 

Page 34, line 26. — something of a swag- 
ger — , T. S. (?) underscored, and commented 

[ 104] 



in the margin, "wants to be said a little more 
delicately." At the end of the paragraph 
someone, possibly T. S., has drawn a line in 
the margin, and written "Good." 

Page 35, line ii. — tinged, — R. L. S. first 
wrote tinted, certain, — T. S. suggested the. 

Page 35, line 13. — forth, — R. L. S. first 
wrote out. 

Page 35, line 20. — walk, — R. L. S. contin- 
ued, and struck out, of a. 

Page 35, line 22. — many, — It is hard to say 
whether R. L. S. first wrote these or three. 

Page 35, line 23-24. — a word, — R. L. S. 
first wrote any word. 

Page 35, line 24. — look, — R. L. S. first 
wrote glance. 

Page 35, line 26. — far away, — Apparently 
inserted when R. L. S. had struck out after 
road the words evidently from a far way off. 

Page 36, line 7. — went, — R. L. S. first wrote 
was. 

Page 36, line 23. — a chance, — R. L. S. first 
wrote the chance. 

Page 37, line 3. — than, — R. L. S. wrote in- 
advertently that lord, then struck out lord. 

Page 37, line 8-9. — // . . . /, — Someone, 

[105] 



possibly T. S., has inclosed in pencilled paren- 
theses, and has written in the margin, ''Brave 1" 

P^gc 37) line 25. — way, — R. L. S. appears 
to have begun to write way, then to have struck 
it out and written road, and finally to have 
come back to way. 

Page 38, line 12. — cauldron, — opposite the 
close of this paragraph T. S. wrote in the mar- 
gin, "Ought not the romance up at the con- 
vent to count for something in his sentiments?" 
This comment was then struck out. 

Page 38, line 16. — gave it, — R. L. S. first 
wrote gave them. 

Page 38, line 19. — her hand, — Someone un- 
derlined, and wrote in the margin, "not the 



custom." 



Page 39, line 13. — more politic, — R. L. S. 
first wrote safer and wiser. Over wiser he 
wrote and struck out safe. 

Page 39, line 15. — raise, — R. L. S. first 
wrote muster. 

Page 39, line i6-iy. — go with him, — R. L. 
S. continued, and struck out, as a vi, or what 
suggests this, although there is no dot to the /. 
Possibly he started to write in antithesis, "as a 
vigorous," etc. 

[106] 



Page 39, line 20. — answered, — R. L. S. first 
wrote said, then replied. He followed the 
paragraph with two short ones, later struck out 
— ^^He would be better dead." And ^'Yes, dear 
friend; but you and I may not think so." 
Whether these changes were due to a line in 
the margin and the pencilled comment — by 
T. S. or by an unknown hand — "a little weak- 
ish and goody," is not to be determined. 

Page 39, line 24. — smile, — R. L. S. first 
wrote laugh. 

Page 40, line j: — Ippolita, — against this 
paragraph a penciled line has been drawn in 
the margin. 

Page 41, line 2. — fought, — R. L. S. struck 
out anyone after this word. He also struck 
out after troopers the words who went with 
him under the charge of the. 

Page 41, line 12. — went, — T. S. struck out, 
and then wrote above, clashed. He also struck 
out at full gallop. 

Page 41, line 17. — storm, — R. L. S. seems 
to have struck out this word, then to have re- 
stored it, finding it to his mind after all. This 
seems also to have happened with cruel, page 
43, line 2. 

[ 107] 



Page 41, line 24. — for his, — R. L. S. first 
wrote for the sake of his. 

Page 42, line 8. — got, — Someone, possibly 
T. S., struck out, and then substituted took, 
and afterwards struck out first, then, and poor. 

Page 42, line 16. — spiritual, — Someone, 
probably T. S., struck out, and a little below 
underlined prominent and high. 

Page 43, line 14. — wife, — R. L. S. omitted 
quotation marks and inserted a row of dashes. 
Then he wrote, and struck out: "You have 

used her very vilely," said the Director. 

"Mea culpa, mea culpa," moaned the penitent, 
the four Latin words being underlined. 

Page 43, line 15-16. — for all . . . past, — 
These words seem to have been inserted, with 
a period closing them, as an afterthought. 

Page 43, line 22. — will, — R. L. S, first wrote 
shall. 

Page 44, line 11-12. — And the heretics . . . 
zeal, — Someone has drawn two lines in pencil 
under these words. 

Page 44, line 14. — one, — R. L. S. seems to 
have written another, and then to have crossed 
it out, putting one in front of it towards the 

[108] 



margin. He drew a line under both words, 
whether for emphasis or not, is hard to say. 

Page 44, line 2 1-22. — Passion first, — 

Someone, presumably T. S., has drawn a line 
in the margin against these words, and has 
written, "does not belong to the time." He 
has also drawn a long line against half the 
sheet, beginning with "And the heretics, fa- 
ther" and ending with "set aside." 

Page 44, line 26. — clasped, — R. L. S. first 
wrote moaned pitiably. 

Page 45, line 15. — And Sanazarro . . . . 
This will be, — The paragraphing follows R. 
L. S., who used A^. L. three times in the text 
and three times in the margin to break up the 
original long paragraph. 

Page 45, line 18. — incarnate, — R. L. S. first 
placed this before devils. 

Page 45, line 25 — Page 46, line i. — and 

.... alone, — R. L. S. wrote and struck out 

when after and, then struck out were they gone 

forth, and wrote above, was she alone, as in the 

text. 

Page 46, line 8. — antechamber, — R. L. S. 
first wrote ante room. 

[ 109] 



Page 46, line 22. — penitence, — The original 
has no mark of interrogation. 

Page 46, line 25. — further, — It is hard to 
determine here and in other cases whether R. 
L. S. wrote further or farther. 

Page 47, line 12. — Nose, — R. L. S. placed a 
colon after this word. He shows throughout, 
an eighteenth century fondness for such punct- 
uation. Someone, presumably T. S., did not 
like the passage and, placing a comma after 
nose, struck out the text through I say. 

Page 47, line 20. — quiet, — Before this word 
R. L. S. wrote and struck out peace and. 

Page 47, line 25. — pardon, — R. L. S. next 
wrote and struck out of him. 

Page 48, line 5. — countenance, — It seems to 
have been T. S. who, not liking this word, 
struck it out, and wrote grin above it. 

Page 48, line 7. — / would, — R. L. S. first 
wrote As God sees me, I would; then striking 
out As God sees me and a than after conscience, 
he repeated the phrase as in the text. 

Page 48, line 21. — has, — R. L. S. first wrote 
so has. 

Page 48, line 23. — listen, — R. L. S. first 

[no] 



wrote look. My lord, — A preceding dash was 
inserted by R. L. S., with a caret. 

Page 49, line i8. — Devily, — The reading 
seems to be clear; yet R. L. S. may have writ- 
ten Devilry, a word he seems to have preferred 
to Deviltry. See J. A. Hammerton's "Steven- 
soniana," Edinburgh, 1910, p. 324. 

Page 50, line 4. — industriously, — Someone 
has underscored in pencil both this word and 
improving below. 

Page 50, line 18. — lift, — R. L. S. first wrote 
help. Then he struck it out, and inserted ////, 
with a caret. Still dissatisfied, he struck out 
////, then rewrote it. 

Page 51, line 4. — not unlike cat's, — Written 
by R. L. S. in the margin, apparently as an 
afterthought. 

Page 51, line 23. — At least, — This sentence 
was written by R. L. S. in the margin, with a 
dagger corresponding to one in the text. He 
first wrote, then struck out. The poison, and 
seems to have changed the small a of the orig- 
inal at into a capital, inserting it, with a caret. 

Page 52, line 7. — broken, — R. L. S. first 
placed this word before bone. 

Page 52, line 12. — them .... were, — The 

[III] 



MS. reads apparently them, far as grave as 
they were. Possibly far may be for. Probably 
R. L. S. neglected to strike out the word here 
omitted, or he may have intended to read far 
with the comma after it instead of before. 

Page 53, line 8-1 1. — but she recol- 
lections, — Someone has made in the margin a 
large black mark of interrogation in pencil. 

Page 53, line 13. — gather, — R. L. S. first 
wrote flow. 

Page 53, line 16. — weep, — The closing 
marks of quotation are omitted, but as a rule 
R. L. S. was careful about such matters. 

Page 53, line 21. — with a smile, — Written 
by R. L. S. in the margin, apparently as an 
afterthought. 

Page 53, line 22. — Orsino's . . . And, — Be- 
tween these words R. L. S. wrote as a separate 
paragraph and an initial sentence, the follow- 
ing, which he later struck out: — ''Do not say 
that," he answered, smiling also, "or you will 
make me jealous in spite of my own heart." 
"Well then," she said simply, "it is because I 
love you, dear!" 

Page 55, line 4. — preparation, — After this 
word R. L. S. wrote, and struck out, of. 

[112] 



Page 55, line 1 1. — at once, — R. L. S. substi- 
tuted these words for before he could expect 
the miracle. 

Page 55, line i8, — restored, — After this 
word R. L. S. wrote and struck out what. 

Page 55, line 23. — trying for, — R. L. S. 
seems to have nearly finished writing these 
words, then to have struck them out, then to 
have decided to write them in full. 

Page 56, line 3. — Although, — After this 
word R. L. S. wrote / dare say. Someone has 
drawn a pencil through the added words, and 
they are omitted from the text. 

Page 56, line 8. — received, — R. L. S. wrote 
and struck out and before this word. A line 
below he wrote entheusiasm. 

Page 56, line 13. — wrought, — R. L. S. first 
wrote performed. 

Page 56, line 25. — a while, — R. L. S. first 
wrote A long while. 

Page 57, line 23. — he, — R. L. S. first wrote 
the before this word. 

Page 58, line 2. — but the most, — R. L. S. 
first wrote property was restored, beyond. 

Page 58, line 4. — ostentation, — R. L. S. first 
wrote parade. 

[113] 



Page 58, line 6. — great door, — R. L. S. first 
wrote high altar. 

Page 58, line 7-8. — and vowed, — R. L. S. 
first wrote promised, for which he then sub- 
stituted and swore, finally choosing the present 
text. 

Page 58, line 9. — future, — R. L. S. struck 
out after this word and intimated his intention 
to go the next day, bare foot, clad in sack cloth 
and with a cord about his loins, to the castle of 
Bartolomeo, and. He made another start with 
to above these words; then apparently put a 
period after future, and wrote in the margin, 
He vowed also, letting these words connect 
with lead, which he had written just after the 
struck out words given above. After lead he 
struck out him, and he inserted Bartolomeo, 
with a caret, after back. Before finishing the 
passage as it stands, he had written and struck 
out before lead the words and told them he 
should, placing them in the margin. 

Page 59, line i. — agreed to, — R. L. S. first 
wrote come after these words. 

Page 59, line 2, — palace, — R. L. S. struck 
out after this word. But the whole day by day, 
there seemed to be less solemnity and less re- 

[114] 



pent. Confessor, — R. L. S. first wrote director. 

Page 59, line 6. — restored, — R. L, S. seems 
to have started to write this word, to have 
struck it out, and then to have written it in full. 
T. S. suggested renewed for renovated, and 
wrote against the paragraph in the margin, 
"Can be shortened with advantage." 

Page 59, line 7. — One, — R. L. S. seems to 
have written And at last one. Then he made 
a new sentence with At last, and finally left the 
text as it stands, patience, — R. L. S. struck out 
luith th his after this word. 

Page 59, line 10. — He, — R. L. S. seems first 
to have written he in the case of both pronouns. 
After the second he struck out cut you. 

Page 59, line 23. — could move, — R. L. S. 
first wrote even moved myself. He seems to 
have intended to stop his sentence with before 
and then to have added the miracle. 

Page 59, line 25. — The priest, — This para- 
graph is struck out in pencil, and in the mar- 
gin, against the next paragraph, someone, 
probably T. S., has written, "Say all this simp- 
ler and shorter." 

Page 60, line 9. — palace, — R. L. S. first 
placed a period after this word, then seems to 

[■15] 



have added a comma and continued and though 
Orsino had been long desirous. Then striking 
out desirous, he wrote anxious to see the pro- 
gress of the tomb, he. All this having been 
finally struck out, he inserted the colon before 
it, and proceeded as in the text. 

Page 60, line 11. — statues, — R. L. S. seems 
to have made, and struck out, a false start with 
this word. 

Page 60, line 16. — wife, — R. L. S. struck 
out and after this word, and added after Cos- 
mo, mthtxn^LV gin, and . . . gentlemen. 

Page 61, line i. — valuable, — Someone, ap- 
parently T. S., has struck out and written deli- 
cate above this word. 

Page 62, line 8. — be rid of, — R. L. S. first 
wrote divorce, next get rid of, then substituted 
be for get. Married . . . moments, — This 
passage is struck out in pencil, and in the mar- 
gin appears a mark of interrogation followed 
by the words, "that is Stephen's mark. I think 
it's all right." This comment seems to be by 
T. S,, and probably the original query was due 
to Leslie Stephen. A little lower in the margin 
T. S. appears to have intended the words 
"Messer Lando" to apply to Sanazarro, al- 

[116] 



though he underscored Bartolomeo in the text. 
He also placed an interrogation mark against 
Duchess, and may have struck out the word. 

Page 62, line 18. — these two, — R. L. S. first 
wrote they. 

Page 62, line 23. — this, — R. L. S. struck out 
evil after this word. 

Page 62, line 26 — Page 63, line i. — bad 
. . . Sanazarro, — These words are underscored 
in pencil, and someone has written in the mar- 
gin, "milk and waterish." 

Page 63, line 7. — dear, — R. L. S. first wrote 
good. 

Page 63, line 10. — creatures, — R. L. S. 
started to write this or some other word, and 
then struck it out. 

Page 63, line 17-19. — / doubt . . . happy, — 
Someone has placed a mark of interrogation 
in the margin. 

Page 63, line 23. — went, — R. L. S. first 
wrote hung, for, — R. L. S. first wrote on. 
Sanazarro, — R. L. S. first wrote Sanazarros, 
when he was alone. 

Page 63, line 24. — work, — R. L. S. seems at 
first to have added here a new sentence com- 

[117] 



plete in itself, His head was full of fancies, but 
the power of execution had deserted him. 

Page 64, line 4. — sword, — R. L. S. seems to 
have made a false start with this word, and to 
have inserted utterly as an afterthought. 

Page 64, line 5. — formed, — R. L. S. first 
wrote made, the sculptor, — R. L. S. first 
wrote him. 

Page 64, line 15. — instrument, — Someone, 
presumably T. S., has written "tool" over this 
word. 

Page 64, line 23. — /«//, — So far as the hand- 
writing is concerned, this might be fall. 

Page 65, line 5. — his son, — R. L. S. first 
wrote Gian Pietro. 

Page 65, line 12-21. — The sun . . . patron, 
— Someone has drawn against this a pencil 
line in the margin. 

Page 66, line 6. — should be, — R. L. S. con- 
tinued it first at the disposal of himself or his 
friends all night through, whatever inconsis- 
tent. This was struck out, and open written as 
a catchword at the bottom of the page; but the 
next page (37) did not begin, as it should have 
done, with open, whatever, but only with in- 
consistent. At the top of p. 37 of the MS. ap- 

[118] 



pear in ink, probably in Stevenson's hand, 
though smaller than usual, the words "rewrite 
this page." The initials "L. S." are appended 
in parentheses, a pencil being employed. "L. 
S." may be Louis Stevenson, but they are also 
the initials of Leslie Stephen, and they may 
indicate the latter's agreement with the au- 
thor's memorandum. 

Page 67, line 3. — indignity. — R. L. S. struck 
out after this word, As whenever, therefore, 
Sanazarro entered the Pala. 

Page 67, line 14. — down, — R. L. S. first 
wrote along. 

Page 68, line 6. — more luxuriant, — Some- 
one has underscored these words, and has writ- 
ten in pencil in the margin the word *'weak." 

Page 68, line 16. — The next, — Against this 
paragraph someone has made in pencil in the 
margin a large mark of interrogation. 

Page 68, line 26. — with which, — R. L. S. 
first wrote of which. 

Page 69, line i. — satisfied, — R. L. S. began 
to write pleased. 

Page 69, line 4. — request, — R. L. S. contin- 
ued with, and struck out, he had just so much 
respect for his wife in his better, the last word 

[ 119] 



being the catchword. He then supplied a new 
catchword in, and began p. 39 as in the text. 

Page 69, line 6. — find, — R. L. S. first wrote 
make, following it with something apparently- 
meant for her, and following that with another 
make. 

Page 69, line 14. — prepare myself, — R. L. 
S. ^r^twfvott persuade my. 

Page 70, line 3-5. — / warn . . . feelings, — 
Someone has struck this out with a pencil. 

Page 70, line 25. — herself, — After this word 
R. L. S. began to write, and struck out, during 
my. 

Page 71, line 4. — whispered, — R. L. S. be- 
gan to write, and struck out, gave him. 

Page 71, line 23. — The older, — Against this 
and the two next paragraphs someone, perhaps 
T. S., has drawn a line, and has written in the 
margin, *'all these parts might have a little 
more fire and go and condensation." 

Page 72, line 22. — he, — R. L. S. wrote after 
this word, then struck out, took. 

Page 73, line 8. — torment him, — R. L. S. 
continued, but struck out, There was now no 
Not only the horror of the impending massa- 
cre. 

[ 120] 



Page "j-i^^ line 1 1 . — were, — R. L. S. first wrote 
was. he feared some mischance, — R. L. S. first 
wrote what might not happen. 

Page ']i,^ line 17. — private, — Someone has 
struck out this word with a pencil, and has re- 
peated the process just below, inserting after 
written the words "in the Duke's praise." 

Page 'JT,^ line 18. — poet, — R. L. S. struck out 
after this word in honour of the reconciliation 
of old foes. 

Page 73, line 25. — gate, — R. L. S. first wrote 
town, mighty, — R. L. S. seems to have begun 
to write great. 

Page 75, line 2. — away, — R. L. S. wrote af- 
ter this, but struck out, at once, the fragment, 
— R. L. S. first wrote //. 

Page 75, line 3-4. — thenceforward, — R. L. 
S. began to write afterwards or afterward, 
chisel, — Someone, probably T. S., pertinently 
suggested "hammer." bare, — R. L. S. next 
wrote and struck out and shot hack. 

Page 75, line 14. — brows, — R. L. S. contin- 
ued with, but struck out, and felt as though a 
weight had been lifted. 

Page 75, line 18. — but, — R. L. S. first wrote 
and. 

[121] 



Page 75, line 25. — going, — R. L. S. first 
wrote coming and going. 

Page 76, line 12. — traject, — R. L. S. struck 
out that after this word. Someone, apparently 
T. S., suggested transit in the margin. 

Page 76, line 24. — drew, — R. L. S. seems at 
first to have wrtten laid, perhaps intending to 
write "laid about him." 

Page 77, line 13. — you may imagine, — 
Someone has struck out these words with a 
pencil. 

Page 78, line i. — anyone, — Someone seems 
to have run a light pencil through any. 

Page 78, line 19. — attached to. — R. L. S. 
first wrote belonging to. 

Page 79, line 13. — trooped off laughing, — 
R. L. S. struck out before these words, tripped 
off lau. 

Page 80, line 3. — falsehood, — T. S. (?) un- 
derscored and wrote *'lie." He also ran his 
pencil through discontented. 

Page 80, line 5. — replied, — R. L. S. first 
wrote returned. 

Page 80, line 18. — pitched upon, — R. L. S. 
first wrote fixed upon. 

[122] 



Page 80, line 21. — knowing, — R. L. S. first 
wrote having. 

Page 81, line 20. — What, — R. L. S. first be- 
gan his sentence with Wherefore. 

Page 81, line 26.— advantage to the chase, — 
Someone underscored, and placed a mark of 
interrogation in the margin. R. L. S. wrote 
the twice, deleting the second. 

Page 82, line i. — gained, — R. L. S. first 
wrote venture. 

Page 82, line 6. — Sanazarro, — Here, in the 
margin, and a little below, two lines have been 
drawn in pencil. 

Page 82, line 11. — galleries, — R. L. S. first 
put a colon after this word, and continued, it 
was plain that Orsino had left the palace by the 
private door. 

Page 82, line 17. — vivid, — Inserted by R. L. 
S., with a caret. After moonlight he struck 
out so intense, that, and, having written vivid 
above, struck that out also. 

Page 82, line 20. — moved, — R. L. S. first 
wrote stirred. 

Page 82, line 23. — intense, — R. L. S. first 
wrote vivid. 

Page 83, line i. — Isotta, — T. S., if it were 

[123] 



he, always intent on his own views, under- 
scored and wrote in the margin, "Diamante." 

Page 83, line 15. — violent, — R. L. S. first 
wrote great. Someone drew a light pencil 
mark in the margin against the passage, with 
him, — R. L. S. at first enclosed in commas. 

Page 83, line 18. — brain, — R. L. S. first 
wrote mind. , 

Page 83, line 19. — Whether, — R. L. S. 
wrote Whether he was right or not in, then 
struck out he was right and in. 

Page 84, line i, — to fortify, — R. L. S. in- 
serted to, with a caret. T. S. wrote against the 
passage, in the margin, "Surely his hatred of 
Orso would get something here from his love 
of Ippolita." 

Page 84, line 20. — Duke, — R. L. S. began 
to write a continuation of the Duke's speech, 
'^Must I, then struck it out. 

Page 85, line 2. — falling, — After this word 
R. L. S. wrote, and struck out, at the foot of 
the. 

Page 85, line 16. — ring, — R. L. S. first 
wrote clash. 

Page 86, line 9. — out a tocsin, — Someone 
has struck out with a pencil. 

[124] 



Page 86, line 12. — Sanazarro began, — These 
words were appended to the preceding para- 
graph, and were then struck out by R. L. S. 

Page 86, line 13-14. — although .... hours, 
— Struck out by T. S., who drew a line in the 
margin and wrote, "This peripetie admirable 
in itself but these sentences somehow weaken 
it. 'began to comprehend' is not the kind of 
way it would dawn upon him." The use of the 
French term for that partof a drama where the 
plot is unravelled seems a bit more in keeping 
with Leslie Stephen than with Thomas Steven- 
son, yet the hand suggests that which made 
most of the annotations. Have we been misin- 
formed as to the father's part in the revising? 

Page 86, line 21. — distant, — R. L. S. con- 
tinued, but struck out, and were watched; then 
he struck out watched and wrote guarded by 
one bewildered sentinel, who was so full of 
inquiries as to why they had begun the war. 
He also started to write above these words a 
new sentence beginning with They. 

Page 86, line 25. — enterprise, — R. L. S. 
struck out night's before this word. 

Page 87, line 2. — know, — R. L. S. struck 
out what was after this word. 

[125] 



Page 87, line 5.— the,—R. L. S. first wrote 
your. 

Page 87, line 17-18. — a sense of power in 
him. — T. S. suggested *'in him a sense of 
power." 

Page 87, line 22. — forward, — R. L. S. struck 
out through the night after this word. 

Page 88, line 13-14. — Against the paragraph 
someone, apparently T. S., has drawn a line 
in the margin, and written "good." that, — R. 
L. S. originally wrote in that. 

Page 88, line 25. — had now become gloomy, 
— R. L. S. first wrote was now something sul- 
len. 

Page 89, line 3. — spurred, — R. L. S. seems 
to have begun, before this word, to write suf- 
fered, or else suffering. 

Page 89, line 15. — then, — R. L. S. first 
wrote again. 

Page 89, line 19. — distribution, — T. S. sug- 
gested "play." 

Page 90, line 13. — set, — R. L. S. first wrote 
fixed. 

Page 90, line 22. — chapel, — The MS. ends 
more than half way down page 54, and below 
the last line of text R. L. S. drew a line. Some- 

[126] 



one has scribled in a large hand, in pencil, be- 
low this line, ^'Bravissimo, caro mio!" To the 
side of this we find in a small hand, "whose 
remark is the above?" This query is signed 
"S," and appears to be by T. S., who has writ- 
ten above the Italian words of encouragement, 
"It would have helped to make the marriage 
of artist and countess possible — if you had 
said how Ercole would take no half measures 
now he had won, but would destroy ["root 
out" was first employed] the house of Orso, 
root and branch, with murder, pursuit and 
spoliation — so that Ippolita would be impov- 
erished and imperilled; then she would not be 
too proud or too great for Lando." 



[127] 



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